


he crashed and burned

by AGracefulShadow



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, The Hunger Games (Movies), Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games, Anatole is a little bitch, Burns, Crossover, Danatole, Implied Romance, M/M, Read at Your Own Risk, TW: Violence, This is really violent, it fits, maybe? - Freeform, seriously, tw: gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-02-25 22:37:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 30,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13222659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AGracefulShadow/pseuds/AGracefulShadow
Summary: Anatole isn't quite sure exactly why he volunteered. He knows that only one of them can make it out alive, but he still couldn't bring himself to let Hélène go alone. Even if it would have been easier for both of them.Anatole has been good at bending the rules; surely this time would be no different. Dumb luck is his friend. He is certain it won't let him down now.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> special thanks to:  
> my mother, for being a test dummy and letting me read this to her  
> @Cicademon, for helping edit this MONSTROSITY
> 
> also I'll put an extra tw in the chapters with violence as well as the specific sections for y'all
> 
> If you want me to tag anything else just ask lmao

Anatole isn't  _ quite _ sure exactly why he volunteered. He  _ knows  _ that only one of them can make it out alive, but he still couldn't bring himself to let Hélène go alone. Even if it would have been easier for both of them. Especially because if the two of them make it to the end (and Anatole is  _ absolutely _ certain that they will), one of them is going to have to die at the hands of the other. He shivers and pushes the thought into the back of his mind. 

If only Hélène would stop ignoring him. 

He stands up and walks over to the couch on the other side of the train car. "Hélène…?" he ventures, leaning on the back of leather. 

One thing is for sure: While the siblings don't fight often, they  _ really _ fight when they do. Anatole and Hélène haven't shared more than three words  _ since _ the Reaping. That had been several hours ago, and now Anatole is getting impatient and anxious. 

Luckily for him, Hélène seems to be in the mood to talk again. Finally. She turns around and looks up at him. "Well?" she says. Immediately, Anatole relaxes. 

"Well, you're not pissed, so." He shrugs and flops on the couch next to her. 

Hélène shrugs, raising an eyebrow. "I would have to move on anyway. We have, what, a week?" She sighs. "Might as well."

"Sweet." Anatole grins. "We're still teamed?"

Hélène rolls her eyes. "Oh my god, Anatole," she replies. "What do you think?"

Anatole shrugs and relaxes into the leather. "I'm allowed to  _ ask _ …" he says, his voice nearly a whine.

Hélène opens her mouth to reply when they are interrupted by the entrance of their mentors: two frustrated looking adults who both give off a vibe of Capital wannabes -- not surprising; they are from District One. Anatole groans internally, despite something telling him he should probably be listening. The advice these two Victors give could mean the difference between life and death. 

He chooses to ignore them anyway. Dumb luck is his friend. He can easily get through this one.

He zones back in when Hélène nudges his side sharply with her elbow. "Nod," she hisses. Anatole blinks and does so. 

"We should be arriving at the Capitol soon," the female one, Viola, says. She has a high-pitched, whiny voice. Anatole doesn't like it. "I'd suggest getting prepared for the crowds. Sibling pairs make for a spectacle." With that, she grabs the elder man, Remus's arm and stands.

When the two have left, Anatole huffs. "Were you paying attention?" he asks Hélène.

She shrugs. "Not really. Not when the girl was talking."

Anatole stands up and crosses the train car. "Whatever. Not like we won't hear it again, eh?" he says, looking through the window. The train enters a tunnel and just like that, the window goes black. If he tilts his head, he can see his reflection like a mirror. Behind him, Hélène shakes her head.

Anatole grins at the window.

***

"Ooh, it looks  _ perfect _ !" Anatole's stylist, Lilia, squeals. She claps overenthusiastically. "You and your sister will be the stars of the show!" She giggles excitedly and claps Anatole on the shoulder. "Well?" 

Anatole stares at the brilliant white and shiny shirt in the mirror. It certainly fits well. He grins. "I suppose. That's what District One always does, eh?" he says. Despite the Games approaching with each passing minute, Anatole seems to not care. Frankly, he doesn't, not yet at least. He puffs out his chest in the shirt and smooths out a wrinkle. "This it?"

Lilia nods, then stops. "Oh! I forgot!" She whirls around and runs over to a closet, leaving Anatole to look at himself in the mirror again. He doesn't know what could  _ possibly _ be missing from an outfit like this. He twists around, playing with the light bouncing off the fabric. The mirror sparkles as well. He stops and combs his fingers through his hair so that it looks better to him.

Lilia comes running back and smacks his hand away. "Hey! Now it's all ruined," she says, crossing her arms. "Just… Just let me put this on!" She takes out a circular container and starts putting something on Anatole's face. Eyeliner. He tries not to fidget. 

When she's done, Lilia pulls away and steps back to admire her work. "One last thing…" she muses, tapping her chin. While she's staring at him, Anatole gets his first  _ good _ look at the constantly moving girl. Lilia is  _ tiny _ . She has magenta hair pulled into a bun and a pretty purple motif in general. Purple eyeliner, pink lipstick. Purple shirt.  Then, she bounces away again and Anatole is left wondering why purple seems to be a thing here. 

This time when she comes back, Lilia is holding a container of lipstick. Anatole is about to protest to this when he can't talk because Lilia is putting it on him. " _ There _ we go." She grins and steps back, capping the cosmetic. "Now we're ready!" She pushes Anatole around so he can see his face in comparison to his entire outfit. For such a tiny woman, she's incredibly strong.

The outfit is definitely shiny. The shirt already glimmers in the bright white lights, with silver sparkles encircling his arms in a swirling pattern, and now so does his face. Both the eyeliner and the lipstick were sparkly silver. In fact, the only part of him that doesn't literally shine are his legs, as he is in simple black slacks. He blinks ever-so-slowly at his reflection. All eyes will  _ definitely  _ be on him.

There is a hideous scraping sound and Lilia drags a chair over towards him. She climbs on top of it. She has a spray bottle of something in one hand and is "fixing" his hair with the other. Droplets of cool water hit the back of his neck and involuntarily, he flinches. Lilia clicks her tongue and returns to teasing his hair up even higher than its natural swoosh. 

After what seems an eternity of Lilia retouching little things about his outfit, the excitable girl claps her hands in finality. "There we go!" she says with a giggle. "Off to the parade~!" She grabs his hand and starts tugging him towards the door. 

_ Finally _ , is all Anatole can think. It has to have been at  _ least  _ an hour spent with the girl, and all he wants is to see what Hélène's outfit looks like. He lets himself be pulled along by Lilia. She pushes open a door, and on the other side, a matching door opens and an equally bedazzled Hélène is dragged out by an equally tiny girl. Their stylists must be siblings too. Anatole wrenches his hand out of Lilia's iron grip, and quickly walks to the center of the room. Hélène's face tells all. 

"Oh my  _ God _ ," she says, covering her mouth with her hand and stifling a laugh. Anatole can see that her nails have been painted a glittering black. He sends out a silent thank you that his nails were left alone.

Hélène's outfit is basically the same, except she has glittery black eyeliner and lipstick instead of the brilliant silver. Her shirt is sprinkled with black sequins in patterns curling around her arms, the reverse of his. She is in the same pants though. "Jealous?" Anatole teases.

"As if." Hélène rolls her eyes. "Come on, they're setting the chariots up." She turns around before her own tiny stylist can drag her away. Anatole turns to follow her, looking around. This is the first and last time he will see this room, after all. He cranes his neck, taking in the room and the people in it. On all sides, people, each from different Districts, are entering and approaching the chariots. Anatole's blue eyes flicker from person to person as he hurries along towards the head of the train. 

Suddenly, he stops, his eyes resting on one of the Tributes. If he remembers from the videos, this one is from District Four, named... something with an "f". Anatole can't remember at the moment. He stares at the teen without even meaning to, but who would blame him? The other Tribute is in a few strategically positioned seashells and a fishnet toga, and he seems to be gleaming. Sea-green swirls have been drawn on his arms and torso with glitter (must be all the rage this year). It doesn't help that he is good-looking. Anatole admires him for a few seconds before the teen looks at him. For a second, their eyes meet. 

Anatole doesn't have time to react before a familiarly annoying hand is pressed into his shoulder blades and Lilia is pushing Anatole towards the chariot. Anatole grumbles and rolls his shoulder to knock her away. He jogs the last couple of steps towards the cart, where  Hélène looks like she might burst from trying not to laugh.

"Were you checking someone out, dear brother?" she says, a sarcastic lilt in her voice.

"He was in fishnet," Anatole mutters, climbing into the chariot.

"Uhh-huh!" Hélène snickers, and the two tiny stylists come rushing up and start doing the final adjustments to the siblings' outfits. Anatole puffs out his cheeks and stares at the two white horses that will be pulling the chariot, half expecting to see a smattering of glitter on them as well. Part of him is disappointed when he doesn't.

"Alright!" Hélène's tiny assistant says. "You're all set!" She says something more, but the words are drowned out by the start of the opening music. She decides to give up, and instead just flashes a thumbs up to the siblings. Anatole looks at Hélène, who just shrugs, and then the chariot is off.

After spending several hours in a dark room getting ready to be presented, the sunlight is blinding. Anatole shields his eyes with his hand. Suddenly, there's a loud screaming and cheers start up from the crowd on either side. He grins and nudges Hélène. She smiles back. 

The two are barely out for a second when Anatole starts waving, playing to the crowd's interests. He is in his element right now, all eyes on him (and Hélène, but it seems like they're cheering for him alone.) Never mind that in fifteen minutes they will officially enter the Training Center. No need to worry about that  _ now. _

Those fifteen minutes breeze by too quickly, and the chariot slows to a halt in the City Circle. Anatole relaxes and looks at his sister, still grinning. 

Hélène rolls her eyes in true older sister fashion, and the two settle down to wait for the other eleven districts to arrive.

***

Anatole has no idea what to make of all the weapons lined up against the walls of the humongous training room. He walks into the center and spins around, taking everything in. Everything here looks valuable. How can he fit it into three days of training? 

Hélène grabs his arm and he realizes he might have spaced out. "Oops," he says.

"It's cool. Look," she begins, "think we should team up with other people? Since we've both decided to completely ignore our mentors. It might help us in the long run." She rests a hand on Anatole's arm and looks over her shoulder at the other Career tributes, specifically at the boy from District Four. "What say you, hm?" She makes a pointed gesture towards him. 

Anatole shrugs. "He could work." He watches as the teen effectively skewers a training dummy with an arrow. 

Hélène shrugs. "Your call, Anatole. I'll talk to someone else, how's that sound?" She doesn't even give him time to respond, just pats him on the shoulder and leaves to locate another Tribute to talk to. Anatole stares at her for a second before spinning around to talk to the kid from District Four.

When he approaches, the boy has put the bow down and is stretching. Anatole looks at the training dummy, which is skewered with arrows, and back at the teen. He ponders how exactly to open up a conversation about possibly teaming when the boy speaks first.

"Can I help you?' he asks, and Anatole nods quickly. 

"Ah, yes," Anatole says. He shifts position so that he looks ever so slightly more confident. "You're good with a bow."

"That I am. What is it?" The boy raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms.

Anatole looks at the arrows sticking out of the dummy, then smiles. "I'm Anatole, from District One. Team?" He holds his hand out invitingly. 

"Dolokhov, Four." The teen--Dolokhov--reaches his own hand out to shake, but then pulls away. "Team? What, you're not any good yourself?" He grins sarcastically. Anatole shakes his head quickly and shoots a sideways glance at the rack of weapons next to the training dummy. They, minus the bow Dolokhov had been using, have been relatively untouched, lending a certain gleam to them. Most of them are bows or crossbows, although there is one throwing axe and below it, a row of throwing knives. Anatole walks over to the rack and picks a knife up.

"No, you see, I'm actually very good with these." He grins convincingly and hopes that it isn't too obvious that he has never picked up a throwing knife in the entirety of his sixteen years. 

Dolokhov raises an eyebrow again, but otherwise doesn't protest. "Oh you are, are you," he muses, motioning for Anatole to demonstrate his skills. 

Anatole steps back and looks at the training dummy next to the sufficiently speared one. The knife is heavy in his hand. He has no idea how to use it. He glances over to Dolokhov, then back at the target. Finally, he chucks the knife at the dummy with a clumsy flick of his wrist.

By sheer dumb luck, the knife embeds itself into the center of the target, somewhere close to where its heart would be. Anatole exhales in relief and turns with a smug grin towards Dolokhov. "Yes, I am," he says proudly. He walks forward and pulls the knife out of the cloth dummy. Behind him, Dolokhov chuckles. 

"I suppose you are, Anatole," he says, testing out the way Anatole's name sounds. 

Anatole sets the knife back on the rack. "Settled then? Teamed?" he asks. Dolokhov nods.

"Yeah, we're teamed." He sticks out his hand to officially shake on it, and contentedly, Anatole shakes back. They're going to be unstoppable, the three of them. Anatole can feel it.


	2. Chapter 2

The remaining two days of training are uneventful. Anatole doesn't do much, besides talking with Dolokhov and throwing knives so he knows what to do for the one-on-one later that day. Surprisingly enough, he isn't absolutely terrible with them, although Dolokhov picks up quickly that Anatole bullshitted his way through their first meeting. Much to Anatole's relief, he doesn't make a move to leave the team. He gets along with both him and Hélène, and for some reason, Anatole can almost pretend that in two days they won't be thrown into the Arena, that they'll just stay like this forever. 

"So," Hélène says, dropping into a chair at one of the tables. "It's the last day of training…"

Anatole nods and slides into the seat next to her. "Mhm!" he says. He picks up a piece of bread from his tray. "Wish it weren't, though."

"Don't we all," Hélène muses.

Dolokhov sits down across from both of them, pushing a chair aside so he is sitting between them. "Any idea on what you're gonna do?" he asks.

Hélène raises an eyebrow. "Something with a bow. I haven't gotten past that yet," she says.

Anatole shrugs with feigned nonchalance. He pauses for dramatic effect before continuing. "No." He grins. "Bullshitting my way through worked the last time, eh?" 

Hélène stifles a laugh with a cough. Dolokhov looks at him. "Good luck with that," he says. Anatole breaks the bread in his hand in two. 

"I'll take it." He grins cockily and pops a piece into his mouth. "Hm?"

"Good, cause you're first," Hélène says, shifting. "Have fun with that." She skewers a potato with a fork. 

"I'll be sure to." Anatole sets the bread on the tray and stretches. "Shame it's during lunch."

Dolokhov nods in agreement and opens his mouth to speak, but he is cut off by the Gamemakers summoning Anatole. Anatole stands up and shoves his tray into the center of the table. "Here goes nothing, hm?" he calls over his shoulder as he walks away.

Hélène waves at him and nods. Anatole turns around to walk into the room where he will be tested. 

The doors give easily under him pushing it open. He stops and stands in the center of the entrance for a moment, looking around at the weapons the Gamemakers have laid out for him. Suddenly, an uncharacteristic nervousness grabs him, leading to him stiffly walk into the center of the rom. He wills it away and walks towards the neat row of targets on the far wall. Just like normal, there's a rack next to it with weapons on it. He grabs one of the throwing knives and quickly walks in front of the targets. Involuntarily, he glances up to the people watching in the room above them. Just another crowd. He smiles. He can certainly handle that.

He throws the knife. It sinks with a satisfying  _ thunk  _ into the target, a few inches left of the center. Anatole straightens up and smiles at the sight. He looks over to the Gamemakers, who don't even look mildly impressed, and frowns. Guess he has to do it again. He sighs and jogs back to the target to pull the knife out. Flashing a glance up to the Gamemakers again, he throws the knife, this time with some flair. The knife sails through the air and once again hits home, just above the same spot he had hit before. He gives another glance to the Gamemakers. His heart sinks as he notices only a few impressed looks. Time to give it one more go.

As he walks pack over to the target for hopefully the last time, he wistfully wonders if he would have background music at this moment. If he could, he would have something. The silence is eerie. 

He pulls the knife out of the target and paces back to the other side. He prepares to throw for hopefully the last time. Suddenly, he trips, landing awkwardly on his right leg. His left leg flies out behind him. The knife slips from his fingers and he hisses through his teeth, a collection of expletives rising to his mind. 

It takes him a moment to realize that he has managed to sink a perfect bullseye into the target, an even better dumb luck throw then the one he had made two days ago in front of Dolokhov. Coolly, Anatole straightens up and pretends like he had meant to do that. With a springy, confident step, he walks back over to the target to yank the knife out. He turns his head towards the Gamemakers again. A large majority seem visibly impressed. He smiles. He starts to walk back again out of habit developed in training when the Head Gamemaker raises his hand. "Anatole," he says.

Anatole looks up expectantly.

"You are dismissed," the Gamemaker finishes, dropping his hand.

Anatole nods slowly and puts the knife back on the rack when he leaves. 

***

"Eight!" Anatole brags at dinner.

"Nine," Hélène retorts. 

Anatole sticks his tongue out childishly and shovels some food in his mouth. This is one of the last actual meals he'll get: In two days, the Tributes will be sent to the Arena. Anatole has decided he is going to make the most of this, although this probably means regretting it later. He ignores that thought and picks up his glass.

"Stop fighting," Viola says. Their mentor does not seem to be in the mood for the siblings' shit. "Tomorrow you have your interviews. Have any plans?"

Anatole shrugs. "It's spontaneous," he says incredulously. "We need plans?"

"On how you're going to present yourself. This is your last chance to get sponsors." Viola casts a look of pure irritation at Remus. Anatole sends a similar one to Hélène.

Hélène shrugs. "No, we don't have a plan," she says, after an awkward pause. "What do you suggest?" It seems very obvious that she's asking this to be gracious; Anatole can tell that she has some sort of an idea. Hélène is ever so slightly better at people than he is. He presumes it's because she's a girl.

"Not being pompous," Remus puts in. "Be confident, but not too confident." Something suggests that that comment is directed to Anatole. Perhaps it is the pointed stare. "Charming. Apprehensive, but not so nervous. Coolly." He signals that he is done talking by returning his gaze to his plate. Viola picks up where he leaves off.

"Act natural," she says, twirling her hair absently.

Hélène bursts out laughing. "If you wanted  _ him _ to act natural," she says, "why'd you say everything else?" The fact that Anatole is shooting her a death glare does nothing to stop her.

"Please," he says, although he's trying not to laugh as well, "I'm not  _ 'pompous' _ ."

"You literally said earlier that 'bullshitting always worked'," Hélène replies. "Don't deny it, Dolokhov heard you as well. And do you even know what pompous means?"

Anatole feigns being hurt. "Well, it  _ does _ \--" he starts, but Viola cuts him off with an exasperated sigh and a wave of her hand.

" _ Children _ ," she groans.

In unison, Hélène and Anatole shrug nonchalantly. Viola gives up and shoves herself away from the table quite unceremoniously. Anatole snickers as she walks away. 

Once she has left, Remus looks up from his plate, a strange expression of defeat on his old, time-worn face. "She's trying, you know," he says. "You're not making it easy."

"We don't." Hélène finishes the food on her plate. "Simple as that." Remus shakes his head at her remark, and Hélène rolls her eyes. She stands up. "Hey, Anatole, head up to the roof?" 

Anatole tilts his head back to look at her. "Yeah, sure, one second." He grabs a green apple from the centerpiece and stands as well, tossing it in the air as he does so. Together, the siblings walk down to the entrance of the suite, near where the elevators are. In the distance, something shatters. Neither of them choose to look behind them.

Much to their liking, the roof is empty. The air is cool for a summer's night, and brilliant lights spread out around them in all distances. It's somewhat peaceful. Anatole takes a bite of the apple and stares at the sight in silence for a while, enjoying the company of his sister. It's been awhile since they could last be truly alone. 

For about five minutes, neither of them speak, the only sounds being the ever present noise from the Capitol and the crispness of the apple. Finally, Hélène breaks the near silence. "You're still eating, hm?" she says. She is sitting on the ground, pressed against what looks to be a huge fan.

Anatole swallows and wipes some juice off his chin. "Yeah. In two days we won't be able to get a decent meal for the most part. Might as well, eh?" he responds. He is standing up, leaning on the slanted top of a vent.

"Might as well. two days…" Hélène trails off. 

"Til the Games begin," Anatole finishes, with a thoughtful bite. "Incredible, isn't it?"

He can feel Hélène's eyes on him. "Why do you say that?" she asks.

Anatole shrugs. "Not sure, to be honest," he says. "It can either go really well  or really bad, depending on the others." He fidgets with the apple stem until it breaks, then tosses it off the roof, or tries to. A forcefield sends the little stem flying back to him. Hélène laughs drily.

"Anatole, it can't go well," she says, looking up at him. "Because you volunteered."

"It can, and it will!" Anatole finishes the apple and drops the core to the ground. "I'm sure there's some way."

"That way is both of us dead. Did you not think this through?"

"Maybe not. I thought we were done talking about this." Anatole frowns and kicks the apple core towards the street. It bounces against the forcefield and rolls back to him. "On the train."

"Fine. We're done talking about it." Hélène raises her hands in defeat and looks out at the Capital again, 

"We are," Anatole says firmly, and the two lapse once more into silence. 

They sit like that for a while before it gets too cold to stay outside any longer.


	3. Chapter 3

Anatole takes one look at his reflection in the mirror before Lilia tells him that they have to go, they'll be late. 

And he is sure of one thing.

He's a  _ star _ .

This time, he has black glitter. Black stars ring his eyes, sweeping around from his cheekbones. Black glitter is sprinkled across the bridge of his nose like freckles. There is a thin line of black down his bottom lip. What tops it off is three black stars on his collarbone, just peeking out of his shirt. Lilia has told him that that is for tomorrow, when he goes into the arena, as a reminder. Anatole loves this look; his silver shirt provides a stark contrast to his makeup and assures that he won't be missed in a crowd. He tugs ever so slightly at the shirt to self adjust before catching up to his stylist and his sister. 

Hélène is a little standoffish at first, probably because neither of them had a chance to talk about last night. Anatole mentally waves it off and grins at her. "Well?" he asks.

"For all your bitching about Lilia," Hélène begins.

Anatole makes a vague gesture. "Never mind about that," he replies.

Hélène rolls her eyes. "Right." She doesn't say anything more, just turns her attention back to the room in front of them. Anatole looks at her outfit, a black dress with shimmery green highlights. She has her own green makeup, but less, instead with a black lace mask and long black fingerless lace gloves. She has a more sensual motif, in comparison to Anatole's; even so, she still has her matching stars on her collarbone, except they're green. Anatole starts to comment when Lilia pushes past them and marches to the elevator. 

"No time to waste!" she chirps, and with an exasperated sigh, Anatole follows.

***

Hélène is first of them, and she is incredibly at ease. Anatole steals a look at the rest of the crowd and is unsurprised at their reactions. She is stunning. At one point, Caesar even says that she would fit right in with the Capitol. Anatole believes that to be a lie; both of them have more substance than the majority of the Capitol combined. He tries not to laugh and waits until his turn.

At the buzzer, he stands, and nods at Hélène as she takes her seat next to him. He doesn't even need to hear his name called to walk up. Below him is the crowd, a collection of intrigued Capitol faces. He smiles broadly at them and takes a seat next to Caesar. The interview begins.

"So, you volunteered to be with your sister, is that so?" is the first question. Anatole nods and glances back over towards the other tributes, searching for Hélène. She shrugs. 

Anatole turns to Caesar. "Yes, of course," he says carefully. "We're very close, neither of us would want to go through this alone." He stretches back in the seat, the conversation from last night flickering through his mind.

He notices a look of sympathy on Caesar's face. "Despite the inevitable," Caesar replies, making it clear what he means. 

"Yes," Anatole begins, "but I don't worry about that. There has to be some way, eh?"

"That's the spirit," Caesar says. Anatole grins back at him. 

The rest of the interview goes quickly, the typical questions: "How do you like the Capital?" "What's the most different thing from your District?" "Anyone special at home?", etc., etc. On the last question, Anatole pauses, wondering how to answer it at first.

"I suppose," he says, drawing the word out. There is, in fact, someone, a girl, but right now she doesn't seem as important to Anatole as one might think his girlfriend would be. He gives the typical information a Tribute gives, but nothing more. His eyes keep drifting over the crowd of Tributes; some part of him is telling him that he would be better off not going into details. Something about how shallow most of the Capitol is, perhaps. He isn't sure.

The buzzer sounds, signalling the end of his interview. Caesar shakes his head slowly. "Time's up, I'm afraid," he says, with feigned sadness.

Anatole makes a move to stand. "All good things must come to an end," he quips, a smile curling onto his lips. 

There is a short round of applause at his comment, and Caesar motions to Anatole. He bows with a confident grin and returns to his seat next to his sister. Hélène rests a hand on his thigh, and Anatole settles into the seat to watch the rest of the interviews. 

***

That evening, Anatole finds himself unable to sleep. 

He lies in bed for a good four hours, staring at the ceiling or out the window, before he gives up and climbs out of bed. Absently, he pulls on a jacket as he walks towards the elevator, figuring that if he can't sleep he might as well go to the roof. His pyjama pants swish around his legs almost uncomfortably as he walks, and the ground is freezing to his bare feet. While waiting for the elevator, he wonders if he should have worn shoes. 

There is a soft ding and the elevator door opens, revealing, much to Anatole's surprise, another occupant. Dolokhov. 

His teammate steps aside and motions for Anatole to enter, silent all the while. Anatole gives him a tiny wave as he steps in. "Couldn't sleep either, hm?" he says, leaning on the railing. 

The doors glide shut and the car starts moving again. "Mm." Dolokhov crosses his arms and leans on the other wall, staring at the buttons on the door. "Can anyone?" 

"Well, true," Anatole replies. The elevator stops and the doors open to the stairs to the roof. "Even though we should be trying... It's what, one in the morning?" 

"Then why are you here?" Dolokhov asks. He starts to climb the steps. "Shouldn't you be trying?" 

Anatole pauses. "...Touché," he says, moving to catch up with Dolokhov. "I was trying for four hours, though, so." 

Dolokhov opens the door at the top with a click. "And I wasn't," he says flatly, stepping out onto the roof.

"No, not what I meant," Anatole shoots back. 

"Sure sounded like it," Dolokhov says, leaning against a fan.

Anatole shivers and pulls his jacket around him. Up on the top of the building is just as cold as the other night had been, and he sinks to the ground to try to avoid getting hit by a breeze. Chilled, he presses his back against a vent and stays quiet for once, watching the ever present lights of the city below.

No one speaks for a few minutes. Eventually, Anatole breaks the silence. 

"So," he says, shifting uncomfortably. 

"So?" Dolokhov asks. He shoots a glance in Anatole's direction, his arms folded over his chest. "What?" 

Anatole's train of thought derails. He knows he had something to say, but he's too tired to remember it. "Nothing, never mind," he mumbles, curling up into a ball. For another couple of minutes, the two do not speak. The silence unnerves Anatole. It isn't an awkward silence, but it feels empty. It is quite different from when he was sitting up here with his sister the other night. Luckily, he doesn't have to deal with it much longer, as Dolokhov talks first this time.

"Do we have a plan?" he asks. His eyes are trained on the horizon line. Anatole blinks and stares at the ground, fidgeting with the edge of his pants.

"A… plan?" he repeats dumbly.

Dolokhov looks at him this time. "For the Games. The Bloodbath. What are we going to do?" 

Anatole shrugs. "I don't know."

"You don't seem to be one to think ahead much," Dolokhov mutters, sitting down. "Any clue?"

Anatole shakes his head. "Not dying would be a good one," he quips with a wry smile. Dolokhov doesn't seem to think it as funny, so he shuts up. "Couldn't resist."

"You should work on that, then. Here, I have an idea." Dolokhov sits up and starts talking, giving a rough outline of a plan. Anatole listens for the most part, and he picks up the most important details. He likes the idea, though. It's very simple, at least, Anatole thinks so. Dolokhov talks for a while, and finally sits back and says, "Well?"

"Sure," Anatole says, wondering exactly how he is going to find anyone in the mess he remembers from television. The Bloodbath seems like hell. Slowly, he stands up. "I like it."

"Good, cause it's our only shot," Dolokhov replies, standing as well. "Going back to bed?"

Anatole nods and stretches. "Yeah, I'm freezing to death here." He turns around. "Are you?" 

Dolokhov shrugs, looking back at the horizon. "Not yet. I'm not quite tired enough to sleep."

"Ah. Well, good luck, eh?" he calls, grabbing the doorknob. "See you tomorrow--" his lips curl into a wry smile-- "and may the odds be ever in your favor." He looks over at Dolokhov, who looks tempted to hit him, and smiles all the more. 

With that, he opens the door and climbs down the stairs, yawning. He makes a mental note to tell Hélène the plan as soon as he can and flops into bed. He is asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> paige asked nicely
> 
> ALSO TW!!! VIOLENCE/GORE!!!   
> THERE ISN'T MUCH THIS CHAPTER BUT JUST IN CASE!!!

The day of the Games dawns bright and early, and Anatole is not ready. Not in the slightest bit ready. One more day, one more hour, one more minute, is all he needs, but he is whisked off to the catacombs much too early, without a chance to talk to Hélène. And now he is standing in the tube, slowly being lifted into the Arena.

His first impression is that the sun is brilliantly bright, and he brings a hand up to shield his eyes. His second is that he is hopelessly lost and they haven't stepped off the platforms yet. 

Nervously, he looks around, craning his neck as far as he can without stepping off the platform. He can see no one he recognizes around him. To his direct right is the girl from District Eleven, who looks nervous but trying to conceal it, and to his left is the boy from District Ten, who is focused on the Cornucopia. Neither Hélène nor Dolokhov are in sight thanks to said Cornucopia. Anatole hisses through his teeth. This isn't good. 

He takes a deep breath and leans forward on his leg so that he can run when the gong goes off. For the first time, the gravity of the situation hits him as he searches vainly for his sister. There is always a chance of his death today. His resolve falters slightly, and he takes another breath. Thirty seconds. 

He is standing in a large, circular clearing. Above him, the sky is a clear blue with the hot ball of the sun beating down on him. On all sides is a dense forest, save for one sliver leading to what appears to be a lake. Other than that, it is pretty homogenous, with woods as far as the eye can see. Anatole wonders where they will end up going. Fifteen seconds.

He stops wondering and leans forward again, staring straight ahead at the Cornucopia. Ten seconds. He takes one final semi-relaxing breath. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

At the gong he is off, running as fast as he can towards the mouth of the Cornucopia in front of him. Footsteps ring out on all sides of him, every Tribute converging on one point. It's terrifying. Where is Hélène? Or Dolokhov? Or anybody?

He doesn't finish that train of thought. His feet catch on something and he slams onto the ground, dirt and mud flying in his face and getting into his eyes. Hurriedly he tries to sit up. His feet trash wildly in whatever they're caught in. It's a cloth of some kind. He rubs tiny pieces of dirt out of his eye and sees that it's a backpack. As quickly as he can, he pulls his feet out of the bag. Desperately, he tries to stand, slipping on the mud. Finally, his feet find purchase, and he starts running again, throwing the bag over his shoulder. Less than five minutes into the games and his hands and arms are covered in mud. It could be worse. One of the falling bodies around them could be his. He picks up speed and tries to head to the back of the Cornucopia, where Dolokhov told to meet him. 

The breath is sucked out of his lungs when something grabs the backpack and pulls with a sharp tug. Anatole clutches the straps so as to not lose his only item. Slowly, he turns around, trying to pull out of whoever it is's grip. 

He comes face to face with the boy from District 2. What was his name? Anatole panics and tries to pull away. The boy has a sword. "Gimme the backpack," he hisses, shoving Anatole down. 

Anatole starts to crawl away on his back, raising an arm protectively in front of himself. The boy doesn't let up in his want for the bag. Trembling, Anatole tries to stand again. "No--?" he says quickly. If only he could run.

The boy growls. "Give it up." The sword's blade gleams and the boy's gray eyes glitter menacingly in the sun.

Anatole freezes and raises an arm over his face, panic seizing his limbs. He desperately wants to move. He has to, or he'll die.

The boy swings the sword. 

Anatole takes a breath and tries to force himself away from the blade before it can hit. 

He is not quite fast enough. The blade bites into his forehead and arm, leaving a stinging wound. Warm blood trickles down his arm and his face. His left eye is filled with the red flow. Panic sets in. He kicks out randomly. One of his kicks hits the boy's shin. There's a curse word, and Anatole takes that moment to get up and run, as hard and fast as he can. The backpack hangs from one shoulder and bounces against his back. He can't see. He has to get away.

Spastically, he wipes at the blood in his eye to try and see. His attempts are futile. More blood drips over his eye and eventually, he gives up, and runs blindly away from the other Tribute. He doesn't know where he's going. He isn't thinking much. 

Someone grabs his wrist and pulls him to the right, into a bush. Anatole wildly swings his other arm in an attempt at a punch.

"Careful, you idiot, it's  _ me _ ," a very familiar voice says. Hélène. Anatole immediately stops swinging and presses his other hand to the wound.

"My, uh, apologies, I can't  _ see _ ," Anatole replies, squinting. Blood is still trickling down his hand and obstructing his vision, but he can see a lot of cuts and scrapes on Hélène as well. A few still ooze blood. Anatole bites his lip. "Will it stop bleeding?" he muses, although he isn't sure whether he means his own wounds or hers.

"Probably," Hélène says, with a slightly concerned, and confused, expression. "I don't have bandages." She stops talking and looks around. "So, any idea where Dolokhov is?"

Anatole shrugs and gestures to his eye. "Until we get bandages, I'm a tad useless," he grumbles. 

Hélène gives him a look, but doesn't comment, instead looking through the trees.

"He said something about the Cornucopia…" Anatole trails off and motions behind them, in the general direction of the metal structure. 

"Doesn't seem to be anyone there, save for the two Tributes from District Two," Hélène says. Anatole shrugs again. 

"I dunno," he replies simply. He closes his eyes and leans against a tree, wiping a few more drops of blood from his face. "Should we stay here, or--"

He is cut off by a  _ thunk  _ from behind him, the sound of something hitting the ground. Startled, Anatole jumps away from the tree he was leaning on and turns around, clutching for Hélène's arm with one hand. It's then when he realizes that the person was Dolokhov. He has a spear, a loaf of bread under his arm, and a tiny backpack. Anatole drops his sister's arm. "I thought you were at the Cornucopia," he says.

"I  _ was _ ," Dolokhov replies, sighing. "Self preservation kicked in."

"So… you climbed a  _ tree _ ," Hélène says incredulously.

"They never look up. Too stupid." Dolokhov smirks as he says it. "Well, let's find some shelter, shall we?"

***

It takes some time to find a suitable place to rest for the night, and the sun is setting and the air is cooling off. A lot. Anatole shivers and wishes that the outfits they were given were made of heavier material. He rubs his arms to try and warm up. At this point, he wants a fire more than anything. A fire and maybe some food. And some water. And a bed.

Instead, they are standing in a clearing, in the air, with no water, no food, save for some plentiful blackberries they harvested on the way and half of the bread, and still nothing to use as a bandage. At least he's stopped bleeding. Anatole sighs and sits down on a rock, holding a small handful of the berries. "Can we stop here?" he asks, popping one of the berries into his mouth. 

Hélène looks at Dolokhov and sits down on the ground next to Anatole. "Isn't this a good spot?" she says.

Dolokhov looks between the two of them before sitting down himself. "We have been going all day, I suppose," he muses. He shrugs his bag off and drops it next to him. "Anything to start a fire?" he asks, seemingly to himself. He leans forward and starts to clear out an area for one. 

"Hey, gimme the berries," Hélène says to Anatole, reaching across for them. Anatole looks down at the rapidly dwindling number of berries, shrugs, and hands them over.

"How many do we have left?" Dolokhov inquires, looking up from the small circle of dirt he had made.

Anatole shrugs again. "A few," he says, and Dolokhov scowls. 

"Should have saved some more," he grumbles. 

"Too late now!" Anatole says, standing. He tries to smile at Dolokhov, but it's more of a grimace. Dolokhov kicks some brush aside.

"I suppose it is. Hey--" here he points at Anatole-- "go get some kindling. Make yourself useful." He turns around towards his bag. "Must be matches somewhere in here…"

" _ Useful _ ," Anatole says. "Hmm." He brushes some dirt off of his pants and walks over to the edge of the clearing. 

"There are no longer any berries left, Anatole," Hélène chides. 

"Get the kindling," Dolokhov calls. 

Anatole rolls his eyes and walks into the woods towards a dead looking bush. Leaves crackle under his feet as he walks, mingling with the noises of the woods. He reaches the bush, grabs a branch, and immediately drops it when nearly invisible thorns dig into his palm. 

"Ahh, you have  _ got _ to be kidding me," he hisses through his teeth, pain radiating from his hand. Little cuts are all over his left palm, stinging like hell, but not bleeding. Anatole shakes his hand and rubs it on his pants, wincing with every movement. "Ow ow ow  _ ow _ ." 

He glares at the bush, his hand throbbing, and kicks up some leaves to distract himself from the thorn bush. From the clearing, his sister calls, "You okay there?"

"No?" Anatole shouts back, staring at the pinpricks of red on his palm. "I found a thorn bush."

"...That's it?" 

"What if it's poisonous? I could die here!" Anatole gently touches one of the cuts and winces. It isn't too bad, in comparison to the cut on his forehead, he supposes, but it still hurts. He shoves his hand in his pocket and walks back down towards the others, shuffling leaves and twigs up from the undergrowth. Dolokhov looks up from the backpack with a handful of matches. 

"If it's poisonous, wouldn't it be showing it?" he says. 

Anatole shrugs and holds his hand out. "Does it look poisonous?" 

Dolokhov grabs his wrist. For just a moment, he stares at the wounds. Then, he looks up at Anatole incredulously. "Anatole, the bush is dead, number one," he says slowly, "and two, it's definitely not poisonous." He drops Anatole's hand. "Just get the firewood." Dolokhov turns around back to the backpack and waves Anatole off. 

***

The fire is small, but it functions, especially since the temperature drops drastically once night falls. Anatole shivers and scoots closer to the flames, pulling the jacket around him tightly. His palm has stopped stinging, thankfully, and the only thing that hurts is his stomach. He wants something substantial, but as of now, there's only twigs. His stomach growls loudly, and Hélène, who is lying down next to the fire, kicks him. "Hey!" Anatole snaps, rubbing his side. 

"Can you not?" she says through a yawn. "It's not going to give you food."

Anatole scoots away from her and sighs, poking the fire with a stick. "I know but I'm--" he begins.

"We all are," Dolokhov snaps. "We might  _ not _ be if  _ someone _ hadn't eaten all the berries."

"Hm…" Anatole mumbles, resting his chin on his knees. 

They sit there in silence for a while, watching the pitiful fire die into glowing embers and trying to ignore a want for food. Every now and then, one of them pokes the fire back up into a blaze, but it dies as soon as it flares up again. They give up. 

Anatole has almost drifted off to sleep when the anthem starts to play, jolting him to full awareness. Up in the sky, eight Tributes flash by: the boy from Three, the boy from Five, both from Six, both from Nine, the girl from Ten, and the boy from Eleven. Just like that, it blinks out, and they are left in darkness once again. 

"Sixteen left," Dolokhov mumbles. Anatole nods and yawns. 

"Yeah, still so many…" he says, looking over at his teammate. 

Hélène laughs from the other side of the fire. "You've seen the ones on TV, Anatole. It'll be down to eight in two days flat."

Dolokhov sounds like he's going to say something more, but the rustle of leaves to the left interrupts him. A stick snaps under something's weight and Anatole sits up worriedly. Behind him, he hears Dolokhov stand and grab his spear. 

The thing bursts through the bushes and freezes like a deer in the lights. 

Another Tribute. 

Anatole jumps to his feet to prepare to run if necessary; after all, Dolokhov is the only one with a weapon, and Anatole isn't quite prepared to die. Hélène does the same, her gaze flicking from Anatole to the stranger. Dolokhov steps forward and makes a move to throw the spear. The other Tribute stands there, frozen, staring at Dolokhov. Nobody moves. 

Finally, the newcomer breaks the silence with a cough. "You…  _ aren't _ going to kill me?" he says, a little confused. 

"...Are you?" Anatole asks in an equally puzzled voice. He relaxes slightly at the apparent lack of a threat.

"With  _ what _ ?" the stranger scoffs, holding his hands up in surrender. "You guys are Careers, shouldn't you be hunting me down?"

Dolokhov slowly lowers the spear, but doesn't relax all the way. "About that," he says, with a vague gesture towards Anatole and Hélène. "We're not quite as bloodthirsty this Games." 

Hélène nods. "That's a word for it," she says, shrugging. "Who are you?"

The Tribute looks between them, nodding skeptically at the trio. "Pierre," he says slowly. "From District Twelve." 

Immediately, Anatole sits back down, completely sure that this guy isn't a threat. Hélène gives him a weird look. "What are you  _ doing _ ," she hisses at him, making a confused gesture. 

Anatole looks up at her. "He's not a threat," he whispers back. "He's from  _ District Twelve _ ." He waves a hand nonchalantly and grins. "And he's probably going to die soon anyway."

Dolokhov makes a noise of assent, and Hélène shrugs in a sort of  _ well, you're not quite wrong _ manner. Pierre looks tiredly at them and mumbles something like, "Well, I hope so, but…" He looks down at the ground awkwardly, and everyone lapses into silence.

After a short pause, Pierre starts backing away. "Seeing as you're not going to kill me," he says quickly, "I'll be leaving, then."

Before anyone can respond, he turns and runs away.


	5. Chapter 5

******** The next morning Anatole wakes up freezing cold and coated in dew. His entire body aches from sleeping on the ground, and his forehead and palm are stinging with the cold. Everytime he even blinks his nerves yell at him. All in all, he's in pain. And very, very hungry.

He rolls over onto his stomach and groans, his entire torso pulsing with sharp pain every time he  _ breathes.  _ Slowly, he sits up and look at the dead embers of last night's fire, as well as at the people--person, surrounding it. Hélène is also sitting up, her eyes trained on Anatole. "Morning," she says when she notices him.

"Uh, morning," Anatole says, rubbing his back. "Do we have food yet?" 

Hélène gives him a look. "Where do you think Dolokhov went?" she mutters. Slowly, she stretches out and sighs. Anatole shrugs.

"Well…?" he begins. "I hadn't… Eh." He stands up and rubs his stomach. "I'm just hungry."

"Believe me, I know." Hélène shakes her head and runs her hands over her legs. "He should be back soon. Hopefully." She makes a half hearted attempt at a sarcastic smile. "He could have gotten eaten by a bear."

"We would have heard a cannon by now," Anatole replies. "Good thing too. We'd be alone, eh?" His stomach growls loudly then and he sighs.

"Yes, well, we're… not. And don't want to be, either." She rubs her hands over her face blearily. "I'm not awake yet."

"Me either…" 

The two lapse into silence, looking around each other in the quiet. Around them, a chorus of birds begins to sing loudly, and Anatole sighs and looks up into trees. Climbing one to catch a bird is beginning to seem like a good idea when there's a rustle from the woods beyond them. 

Suddenly, a startled rabbit bounds out of the trees and freezes, staring right at Anatole. He glances at Hélène, who doesn't say anything. She just looks back imploringly.  _ What the hell do we do? _

Anatole shrugs. The rabbit jumps forward a few times before stopping again. It's so  _ tantalizingly _ close to them that Anatole can see the whiskers twitching on its nose. He looks from the rabbit to his sister and back and forth a few times. Unfortunately for him, Hélène doesn't seem to know what to do either. So, they improvise.

The rabbit jumps closer to Hélène, and she drops to the ground right in front of it. It stops again from fear, shaking, and she makes a grab for its head. It lunges away from her and towards Anatole.

He panics and kicks in the general direction of the creature. By sheer dumb luck, his foot connects with the rabbit's head, and it flies backward, dazed. They stare at the twitching animal for a moment. Hélène picks up the blackened stick they used to poke the fire with and hits the rabbit in the head a few times, until the stick snaps. Hesitantly, she uses one of the broken pieces to stab it in the eye. Now, it is definitely not moving. 

"Well," Anatole muses as he approaches the dead animal, "we're not entirely useless." He crouches to look at it before picking it up by the tail. The tail comes off in his hand. He grimaces and picks it up by the back.

Hélène nods with a satisfied smile. "No, I'd say not. Maybe it wouldn't be too terrible if Dolokhov were eaten by a bear." 

Anatole grins back at her, and drops the stiffening rabbit onto the ground again. "We could make it," he says in agreement.

***

Dolokhov comes back, cradling some eggs in his arm, a few minutes later. "You killed a rabbit?" he says in disbelief.

Anatole looks up at him, waves, then turns back to the dead animal in front of him. He pokes it with the stick and looks back at the fire. "Yes," Hélène say.

Dolokhov sits down next to them, gently rolling the four eggs he has onto the ground. "You know what to  _ do _ with the rabbit?" he asks. 

"That's another story entirely," Hélène replies. Anatole looks around.

"Do we just... eat it?" he asks. At this point, he's hungry enough to consider eating it raw, fur and all. He glances over at Dolokhov, who shakes his head.  

"Um, no," he says, picking up the carcass. "We have to skin it first. And take the guts out. Here--" he makes a motion for the spear, which had been lying carelessly on the ground on the other side of the fire (from across the fire, Hélène mutters something about them forgetting the spear -- at least the rabbit is dead)-- "I'll do something with this, I hope, and you guys just get some more firewood." He waves a hand in the general direction of the dead bush. Anatole hands him the spear and glares at the dead bush. His hand still stings from the ordeal of last night.

"Could we just relight it?" he asks, nudging the ashes in the pit. Dolokhov shakes his head and holds the spear close to the head. 

"No, not gonna work." He stares at the rabbit and sighs. "Do you want to eat or not? Because at this rate, we're not going to eat." 

Anatole doesn't argue this time, just rises to his feet again. 

***

The sun is high in the sky when they leave camp, beating down on them as they walk away. Anatole isn't sure why they had to leave, but he thinks it has something to do with the fact that they're in the open. He doesn't question it. Dolokhov seems to know what he's doing. 

He chews a rabbit leg as they trudge through the trees, occasionally looking around at their surroundings. The food isn't doing much for the for the dryness in his throat, but at least it does something. Besides, Dolokhov says that there must be water soon, and they seem to be going on a downhill track. If there's one thing that Anatole knows, it's that water always goes downhill. 

He tosses the leg bone behind him and wipes his mouth. "How much longer do you think?" he asks, breaking the silence that had fallen between the trio. Dolokhov shrugs. 

"No clue. It's getting greener though." He makes a sweeping motion at the grass and moss. "We should be close."

"Good," Hélène mutters. "We'll die out here."

Anatole pats her shoulder in what is supposed to be a reassuring way, and Hélène just shakes her head slowly.

They walk on in silence for a while. This time, it unnerves Anatole; he's never been one for quiet, especially right now. Talking is a nervous habit of his when the stress gets too high. He fidgets with his torn shirt for a while before clearing his throat. "Look at that," he says, pointing at a path of worn and trodden grass. "Think that could help?" He coughs and tilts his head. 

Dolokhov and Hélène stop walking and turn to him. "A deer path?" Hélène questions, raising an eyebrow.

"Probably," Dolokhov says. After a pause, he nods and approaches it. "Yes, definitely. We can probably follow it to water." He glances between the two, as if waiting for an objection, before beginning the trek through the trees. Anatole meets Hélène's tired gaze and smiles in what he hopes is motivating, although it feels more like a grimace. He grabs her wrist and starts to pull her through the woods behind him. 

After a few steps through the trees, she pulls out of his grip. Dolokhov has sped up, leading Anatole to believe that there is indeed water up ahead. "Almost there?" he offers. 

Hélène nods. "Yes..." she says. "Almost there." She looks unbelievably tired, and must not have gotten enough sleep the night before. Anatole doesn't question. He's amazed he was even able to sleep. 

Up ahead, Dolokhov has stopped and is starting to motion towards them excitedly. Anatole grins at the thought of water and nudges his sister. She glances up from the ground, then back at Anatole. They don't even say a word before walking through the trees side by side and bursting out onto the shores of a muddy brown lake. On the far side is a huge waterfall, churning the water up into an off-white foam. It looks disgusting, but water is water, and the trio walks down to the waterline excitedly. Anatole has just bent down to drink from it when he notices someone else on the grass nearby, poking the water with a stick. The kid from District Twelve, Pierre. Anatole shrugs and takes a drink. Pierre seems to be oblivious to their presence right now, so Anatole ignores him. He still isn't a threat.

After drinking as much as he can without throwing up, Anatole leans back onto the mud. The sun beats down on him from a cloudless sky. He rolls over and grabs his backpack to dump it out onto the dirt. One empty metal water bottle, a tin pot, a sleeping bag, and a pair of socks falls out. Now would probably be a good time to fill the water bottle. He picks it up and walks back towards the lake when Pierre yells from his spot, "Changed your mind on killing me yet?" 

Anatole looks up at Dolokhov, who has been rummaging through his stuff. He looks up from that, laughs, and turns back to the supplies on the mud. "Think we need a bit more time to discuss," he calls back. He probably would kill Pierre. Anatole doesn't say anything. He picks up his water bottle from the lake and closes it. 

" _ Kill _ him," Hélène mutters from the side of the lake. She is scrubbing out the blood and dirt from her jacket. Anatole tilts his head and walks over to her. 

"Like, him?" Anatole asks, taking a seat next to her. Hélène shrugs and shakes out her jacket. The water spraying everywhere around them. Anatole wipes a drop off of his arm. "Now?"

Hélène shakes her head. "I don't know, maybe? That's what we're  _ supposed  _ to do." She leans back and sighs. "He  _ is _ asking for it." 

Anatole glances down at the deep red wound on his arm. The adrenaline has long worn off, and now he can't look at it. He drops his arm and stares into the lake. "I mean, we don't  _ have  _ to kill him," he hisses. "I don't  _ want _ to." 

Hélène nods. "You're right, but what do you want to do?" she whispers back, spreading her jacket out so it will dry in the sun. "What else can we do?"

Anatole doesn't know how to answer that. He takes a sip of his water bottle. "Dunno," he says. 

He lies down on the ground again and stretches out. The rumble of the waterfall provides  nice, relaxing white noise...

***

Anatole falls asleep. He knows this because Dolokhov wakes him up when the sun has fallen behind the trees. Dolokhov points at the once again pitiful fire nearby. "Executive decision," he says quickly. "We're adopting him."

"We're doing what now?" Anatole asks, his head still fuzzy from sleep. Dolokhov jerks his thumb at Hélène. 

"It was her idea for the most part. Since both of us were busy with other things, and you were, well, asleep. And he's from District fucking Twelve, so he's gonna die soon anyone." He rattles off a list of reasons for something Anatole hasn't quite picked up yet. Anatole blinks slowly and rubs an eye, wincing at the pain in his eyebrow. 

Dolokhov drops his voice to a whisper. "He'll make a good meat shield if we need it to, so." He smirks at that. "In case we run into some mutts, you know."

"So he's uh, a part of the team?" Anatole asks.

Dolokhov nods. "Yeah, so to speak. Come on, he has bandages." He waves vaguely at Anatole's face and turns to walk away. Anatole stands and follows him towards the fire, where Hélène and Pierre are sitting. When he sits down nearby, Hélène waves. 

"Good of you to join us," she says, stabbing at the glowing embers with a long stick. "Didn't want you to sleep past bedtime."

Anatole waves his hand aimlessly in response to his sister. "I mean," he begins. He doesn't finish his sentence, turning to Pierre instead. "Sorry for not killing you there," he says with a snicker, 

Pierre doesn't seem quite so amused. "Yeah, well, it's never too late," he says, steadily getting quieter as he keeps talking. 

"So!" Dolokhov says as he takes a seat. "How'd you survive the Bloodbath? Typically you get knocked out early." He motions for Hélène to give him the stick for the fire, which she does. 

Pierre shrugs. "I went the other direction," he says. "I suppose I regret not hanging around first. I don't know where anyone is." He stares at the ground and shuts up, leaving Anatole very confused.

"Wait, you had another team?" he asks. "Do we have any food?" He looks around the fire, his stomach growling. 

Pierre shakes his head. "Not really, I suppose. My team was ust Natasha. I know where Andrey is." He leans back and looks at the darkening sky wistfully. 

"So Andrey is, uh, dead?" Anatole asks. Pierre gives him a look, and Anatole decides that means it's a confirmation. "That sucks." 

"Yes…  It… does," Pierre replies tensely. He shifts awkwardly, and Dolokhov stabs the fire with the stick until it flares up for a second. Once again, it dies almost instantly. The four of them are left colder than before and in ever dimming light. 

They sit like that, in an unbelievably awkward silence, until Pierre speaks again, "You two are from District One, right?" 

"Yeah, it's nothing special," Hélène says with a shrug. 

"In comparison to the Capitol, maybe," Pierre scoffs. "You know how lucky you are?" He leans back. 

"Well, we're still in a District," Anatole says. "I mean, we're still both here--" 

Pierre cuts him off. "You've been fed all your life, you've probably gotten training--" here Hélène laughs, but seems to be ignored-- "you have a  _ natural _ advantage." He sighs. "We all know you're going to win  _ anyway _ … should've just killed me while you could." 

"But like…" Anatole begins, but he has no idea where he is going with it. He stares at the glowing embers for a while, trying to word what he wants to say. "Like, you're not--" 

He gets cut off by the national anthem beginning, and as one the four turn their attention to the sky. No one's picture flashes by tonight. Anatole wonders if this is a good thing. At least there are still sixteen people left. 

The seal blinks out of the sky, a gust of wind blows the fire out completely, and a twig snaps behind them.

In the darkness, Anatole can't see anything. He tenses and looks at Hélène, who looks concerned, then at Pierre, who doesn't appear to have noticed, then at Dolokhov, who has grabbed his spear. Anatole looks behind him, trying to peer into the trees. Through the woods, he sees a glimmer of light. It doesn't seem good.

There's a crash of foliage, and three Tributes burst out of woods, wielding swords and bows and torches. Anatole jumps to his feet, his eyes flicking wildly from person to person. One of them is the boy from the Cornucopia, who still has his sword. Flecks of dried something coat the blade. Anatole wonders vaguely if it's his blood, then pushes that thought back along with the queasy feeling in his stomach. 

The attackers keep approaching. Around him, Anatole hears the others get to their feet. 

The boy's sword glints in the torch light. 

Anatole doesn't think twice.

***

He doesn't realize he's left the others behind until he pitches head first over a ledge. 

He lets out a yell that falls silent as his head hits the ground, and with an audible smack, everything goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and thus, the hell begins.


	6. Chapter 6

When Anatole wakes up again, sunlight is filtering through the spinning trees. Squinting at the sky, he raises a hand to his forehead and groans. There is a lump on his forehead that pulses with pain every time his heart beats, and there's a sticky substance pooled over his left eye. He scrapes his fingers across it and gags when he sees the red-brown under his fingernails. Blood. The cut on his forehead must have reopened sometime during his crash through the woods.

By this point, the world has stopped spinning, and he sits up slowly, risking a glance at his forearm. The cut there is unopened and pink, not quite red enough for alarm. At least he isn't bleeding there too. 

His stomach lurches as he tries to stand. Hungry. God, he is hungry. And thirsty. His tongue is swollen to the point of being unable to speak. Water. Where is water?

He climbs to his feet and fumbles around for a tree to lean on. This isn't fun at all. The tree sways a little under his weight, but otherwise doesn't break. He bursts out into a coughing fit. His entire body aches with each cough, the shuddering causing muscles he didn't even know he had to react to the coughing. 

When he can breathe again, he looks up from the ground.

_ I'm gonna die out here. _

***

He wakes up again in just as much pain as earlier. Somehow, he starts moving, slipping and sliding down the hill he almost died on, his feet unable to find purchase on the blanket of vines on the ground. Every step tires him even more, and he keeps stopping and leaning on a tree. All around him is eerily quiet, devoid of human sounds. Nothing but birds and the cracking twigs under his feet. He can't stand it at all. For a while, he tries making any noise to keep him sane, but all he can make are some inhuman grunts thanks to his swollen tongue. He gives up and resigns to the near silence.

The lack of humans leave him on edge.  _ Where is my sister...? Is she alive? _ He starts thinking, and unable to distract himself, his mind wanders to every possible way his sister or Dolokhov could have died, starting with something quick and ending with long, agonizing fights. In his mind, he can hear the fighting and shouting and the sound of a blade on flesh and--

He quickly shakes his head to stop the thoughts. No, Hélène can't have died. She must have run too, as far and as fast as she could. She has some sort of self preservation. And Dolokhov, well, he isn't dead either. He has the spear. They are fine.

Absently, Anatole realizes that he hadn't considered Pierre. 

He shrugs and keeps moving, stumbling down the hill.  _ How long was I out for? _ he wonders absently. From the dryness in his throat and the endless pangs in his stomach, he can guess it was a while. He huffs silently, hoping for something to just appear for either discomfort. Nothing does for a long while. Coupled with the ever-pressing silence, he starts to panic. 

Eventually, Anatole is too tired to carry on, and he practically crawls under a small rock outcropping. There, he curls up in a tiny ball and waits for death. 

Nothing happens. 

He sighs and stretches his fingers out under the rock. The air is cool from the shade, and the rock below him is cold. Very, very cold. He brushes his fingers against the shadows and discovers a hole. 

A rift in the rocks.

Anatole sits up and narrowly avoids bashing his aching head into the rock above him. There is indeed a rift there. He brushes his fingers into it, loosening a pebble or two. They fall into the hole. 

There's a gentle  _ plunk _ , like the sound of a pebble falling into water.

Water.

Blindly, Anatole crawls forward, closer to the rift and closer to the water. He stops just in front of it. Below him, the gap stretches, blacker and darker than the rest of the cave. He smiles and sticks his hand down into the small crevice. Cool water greets his fingertips. He brings his fingers to his lips cautiously.

It tastes like metal, and it's gross and freezing cold, but it's water. It's water. 

He reaches down again and finds a shallow, hollowed out rock. It would work as a cup. He picks it up, and drinks, and drinks, and he thinks he should slow down, it doesn't feel right, so he stops, and then he drinks some more. 

Soon enough, he's drunk his fill. The rock falls back into the crevice with a splash.  Freshly rejuvenated, Anatole rolls out from under the rocks and rises shakily to his feet. 

When he stands up, he is face to face with another Tribute.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> huge tw for violence/gore  
> that's like the point of this chapter, there's a summary in the bottom notes with much much less detail if you need it.

It's three other Tributes, actually. Two girls and a boy. A very familiar boy with menacing gray eyes.

Anatole blanches. "Evening," he tries to say, but it comes out "Efena." He still can't speak properly, despite having drunk a little water. It was nowhere near enough.

The boy from District Two flashes a sickeningly sweet smile. "Look at you. Can't even speak." He laughs and turns to the girls. One of them is tall and lithe, with short brown hair and hard brown eyes, from District Two as well. The other one, shorter, with light brown hair and worried hazel eyes, is from one of the other districts, but Anatole can't remember which. She clearly doesn't belong though. The boy clears his throat. "What should we do with him?"

Anatole raises a hand and starts to say, "Not killing me would be nice." What he manages to say is "Nah k--" before the taller girl cuts him off.

"Kill him. It'll be quicker now that he can't run." She says this nonchalantly, as if he were an animal. Anatole's blood runs cold and he shakes his head rapidly. 

The timid looking girl pipes up, "Or we could maybe keep him here? I mean, he is a Career too..." She trails off as if she said something wrong, and Anatole gives her an encouraging thumbs up.

"You're not, you're just lucky," the boy spits, turning his attention back to Anatole. "Killing him sounds like a plan. But we should make sure--" he grabs Anatole's shirt and pulls him forward-- "that he can't run again, now..." 

"Aeh?" Anatole says, shivering. What does he mean, again? Anatole pushes his hand against the boy's meaty one and shakes his head back and forth. "No? Pleh?" 

"No can do," the boy replies. He whirls around and drops Anatole onto the ground, and Anatole groans. Any energy the water had given him vanishes, and now he's about ready to wait for death for the second time in the same day. Pathetically, he looks up at the boy, who seems to be studying him. 

"Weh?" he asks.

"Yeah, what are you doing, Alexei?" the girl from District Two says. "Just chop his head off or something."

Anatole blanches and shakes his head. The boy from District Two -- Alexei -- shakes his head as well, except slower. "Nah…" he says. "Let's do something different."

An uneasy silence descends upon the four of them. "What do you suggest, then…?" the other girl asks.

Alexei grins. "Let's set him on fire."

Anatole's heart leaps into his throat. "Huh? Whaa?" God, if only he could talk! He fumbles backward, trying to stand up, but Alexei kicks him in the chest and knocks him to the ground again. A dust cloud rises with the force of his impact and Anatole starts coughing, rolling onto his side. 

"You heard me right," Alexei says. "Light him up." He motions for someone to hand him a cloth. "It'll be a spectacle."

Anatole whimpers pitifully and tries to crawl away again. _Fire?_ _Light me on… fire?_

"That's a really bad idea...," the smaller girl begins. "Maybe we could just--"

"Quiet you. I could kill you too," Alexei snarls. He presses a hand on Anatole's collarbone and rolls him forward. Anatole stares straight ahead, desperate to avoid meeting his soon-to-be killer's eyes. Alexei is sitting on his chest now, keeping him from moving as well as breathing. Anatole wriggles back and forth and winces. He might just puke now. Maybe throwing up on Alexei would spare his life. 

"Stop squirming," his killer mutters, "or this will be twice as bad as before."

Anatole isn't sure how anything could be worse than being lit on fire. He tries to push Alexei off one last time, although it's futile against the solid rock that is the boy from District 2. His efforts get him punched in the face. Hard. 

Blood trickles from his nose and down his face, and he falls back, gagging and sputtering. "I warned you," Alexei says with a huff, and Anatole moans and nods. He has officially given up, and now just wants to die, already. At least it's a cool death. He shuts his eyes and whines at the throbbing in his nose.

Out of nowhere, he vaguely can hear the smaller girl saying, "Just kill him, be merci--" 

The weight is lifted from his chest, freeing his breathing to something closer to normal. He makes a move to scoot away, and gets kicked in the solar plexus. The wind is knocked out of him again. He decides to lie on the ground and catch his breath. "You know what? You do it," Alexei growls. Anatole watches blearily as the cloth is shoved at the girl who keeps defending him. "Since you want it to go so quickly." Alexei pushes the girl roughly towards him. She stumbles forward and steps on his hand.

Anatole closes his eyes. He tries to ignore the blood dripping down his face, coating his lips, pooling onto the dirt -- the image in his  _ head  _ will kill him if the fire doesn't -- and his imminent doom, despite the ugly feeling in his stomach every time he tries to think of anything else. For a solid minute, nothing happens. 

He risks a glance up at him and immediately regrets it. The girl is standing stock-straight with the tip of Alexei's sword at her back, trying her best to light the cloth -- which looks vaguely like one of the socks Anatole had in his bag -- with a match that refuses to light in her hands. Every second that passes without a flame feels like an agonizingly slow eternity. Anatole keeps glancing at the shimmering blade, with the dried drops of red that could easily be his or Hélène's or Dolokhov's or Pierre's or any of the eight Tributes that died the first day and how painful and agonizing each of their deaths must have been at the hands of that sword and all of the blood and the bones and the guts and he can no longer help himself.

He rolls over and throws up.

His shoulders shake with dry heaves. He tries to roll back, away from the putrid green liquid he just expelled. His head is swimming with the stress, and he half-closes his eyes. Alexei scoffs. "What, can't handle a little blood?" he sneers, kicking some of the vomit towards Anatole with the toe of his boot. Anatole groans in protest and tries to turn his head away. "What kind of Career are you?" 

Anatole doesn't say anything to that, just lies there pathetically, waiting for the fire to drop down on him and catch on his clothing and hair. The stench alone from next to him is enough to make him want to hurl again, not that there's anything left to.  _ What's taking so long...? _ He wraps his arm around his stomach, shaking, and, against his own will, lets out a little squeak of emotion. He stops himself from another one. It's too late though. It's obvious Alexei heard, because he brings the sword from the girl in front of him and laughs. "Look at that, he's terrified," he says. He rests the tip of the the blade against Anatole's stomach. Anatole sucks in his stomach to avoid more blood. 

"This is taking too long," the girl from District Two says. "Just kill him already."

Alexei grumbles something that sounds like assent.

The match catches on fire just as Alexei presses the tip of the blade into his stomach, just deep enough to hurt. Pain shoots through his torso and this time, Anatole  _ can't  _ run. He pushes himself back into the dirt, squirming, and then the flames hit the dry part of his shirt and it hurts a thousand times as bad as the blade does.

Anatole tries not to. He tries to stay quiet. He can't do it.

He screams.

He can't take this. God, he can  _ smell  _ it, and it smells strangely like charcoal at first, and the smell reminds him of cooking, and home and food and then he remembers that he's smelling his own burning skin and he wants to retch, but there's nothing left and it  _ hurts.  _ The pain from his searing flesh is unbelievable, with the flames eating at his skin. Time blurs together and all he can think is pain. He manages to roll over onto his side somehow, right into the vomit, but he barely notices. Somewhere he starts crying.

He blacks out again.

The last thing he is conscious for is a scuffle, and someone hitting the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anatole gets caught by the tributes from 2 and the girl from another district. He is set on fire. It's put out quickly, but he blacks out. Will he survive?


	8. Chapter 8

Surprisingly, Anatole wakes up again, on his stomach and sopping wet. His head pounds with his heartbeat. Half of his face is coated in dried blood and vomit, and pain radiates out from the burn, and he winces as he rolls onto his back. It's night time now, the stars twinkling in the sky above. All around him are the sounds of the night wildlife, as well as a strange crackling noise. He squints up at the sky, trying to figure out what the noise is when it hits him.

Fire.

Panic shoots through him and he sits bolt upright. Immediately he regrets it and groans, the burn on his stomach pulsing with sharp pain. He bites his lip and sits stock still, his eyes sealed shut. He doesn't want to look at the wound yet. He doesn't want to throw up again; not that he has anything to lose. He takes a shallow breath, but the pain seems unavoidable. Damn. Grinning and bearing it isn't something he's good at.

From the direction of the fire, someone speaks. "You're alive, huh?" the girl from earlier says. Carefully, Anatole looks over at her, blinking. 

She seems pretty beat up, with a bandage hanging over the right side of her face and a linen cloth wrapped around her stomach. Red stains cover both of them. Anatole looks away. He still can't talk. 

From the flickering fire, there's a shuffling noise, and the girl approaches Anatole. "Here," she says, dropping a metal bottle next to him. "Alexei and Irina left quick enough after you blacked out, because Alexei had decided to leave me for dead, and sword was… well, here--" she gestures to her stomach and Anatole shuts his eyes-- "so he couldn't use it as efficiently when someone else, I don't know who, charged the camp with a club, and Irina convinced Alexei to run because the guy was  _ huge _ and well…" She sighs. "I played dead, and you seemed dead, so they didn't stay, but, hey, we have all the supplies…?" The girl doesn't seem all that confident in how long it'll last though. "A lot of it was water, though. Lucky thing, too…" She trails off into an awkward laugh. "Cause… y'know." 

Anatole picks up the metal bottle and twists the plastic cap off. He stares at the girl with a questioning look in his eyes as he drinks. He doesn't  _ know _ this girl, so why is she helping him?

The girl blinks. "What?" she asks, pointing at herself. "My name?" 

Anatole nods and rests a now half-empty water bottle on the ground. His stomach lurches with the feeling of a proper drink for the first time in days, and he wonders if he might actually throw up again. He seriously hopes not. 

"Uh, I'm…I'm Mary, from District Five," the girl says. She picks at the ground. "When you can talk, tell me your name so it isn't so… awkward." 

Anatole shrugs. It might always be awkward. All he needs to know right now is if Hélène and Dolokhov are alive. If only he could ask her if she helped kill them. He hates not being able to speak right yet. He resorts to picking at the dirt he's sitting on, trying his best to ignore the charred grass and drops of blood. 

He shifts slightly and waves of pain cascade from his stomach, strangely enough right around the burn. He winces dramatically. Mary seems to notice this. 

"Oh," she says, standing up and turning around. "Is it your stomach?" She walks over to a pair of backpacks and starts rummaging through it, leaving Anatole to stare at her back with a look that reads "no, really?" 

She stops pulling things out of the bigger backpack and sighs. "Of  _ course _ it's your burn… what else would it be?" She huffs and looks over at Anatole with an apologetic face. "Sorry.."

Anatole can't say anything to that, so he just tries to ignore the burn on his stomach and wait for whatever Mary is getting from the backpack. Hopefully some food, or something for the burn on his stomach. 

He drinks more water.

Mary returns with a package, a small metal box. She sits down next to him and opens it. "Here, it's a first aid kit," she says, setting it down next to him. "There could be something in here for the burn, but I didn't want to use it on you while you were unconscious in case you actually did, die…" She trails off and sighs. "Well, I mean, there's probably something." She glances at the burn and sucks in a breath. "Let's get that uh… fixed?"

Anatole shrugs, then glances from the metal box to Mary's concerned face to the wound on his stomach. A grimace slowly spreads across his face. "Oh my shit," he croaks, his voice still hoarse from dehydration. 

The burn is a hideous blackened ring spreading across his stomach. Flakes of skin have peeled off from the surrounding wound, leaving black char marks around an angry red and blistering patch. Vesicles spread out in a ring around, threatening to burst at any moment. His breathing makes the liquid inside of them move. Luckily enough, the burn isn't deep enough for him to see internal organs, somehow; someone must have put the fire out pretty quickly after he blacked out. Mary, most likely.

Anatole looks up and gags, what little he has drunk threatening to come back up again at the sight of his wounds. He closes his eyes. Part of him wants to avoid being weak in front of his temporary ally (at least, he thinks they're allies for now; Mary just looks suspicious of him at the  moment), but he also would rather not look at -- or touch -- the burn himself. He digs his fingers into the grass. "Bandage?" he asks pitifully. His voice sounds something like a cross between his thirteen year old self and a dying cat to his ears. He would drink more, but the nausea hasn't gone away.

"Hey, you're talking," Mary says, with a nervous sort of laugh. "Need me to bandage it?"

Anatole nods and squints at her. How on earth  _ she _ can stand the sight of  _ it _ is beyond him. 

"I can do that…" she muses, before opening the first aid kit with a creak. "I'm not sure if this'll hurt or not. Sorry if it does."

Taking too deep of a breath hurts. Anatole just waves a hand nonchalantly, as if it's nothing, despite it clearly being something. 

Mary nods and sets to work.

***

The burn is covered soon enough, a big fluffy bandage wrapped tightly around Anatole's torso that is somewhat constricting his breathing, but he wasn't breathing deeply to begin with, so it's okay. He leans back and finishes the lukewarm water bottle. "Thanks," he says, his voice somewhat back to normal. It's still dry, but he doesn't sound like a dying animal. 

"You're welcome, uh, ah," Mary replies. She pauses. "What was your name again?"

"Anatole, One." He wipes his chin with the back of his hand and grimaces at the mud. "Sorry. I couldn't speak." He shrugs. 

Mary nods. "Yeah, you really couldn't." She stands up again and walks over to the packs. Anatole fidgets with the cap of the water bottle, staring at it in near silence. It starts grating on him again and he is about to say something ridiculous when he realizes the water bottle was his from the lake. He blinks and runs his thumb along the cap. "You were with those two when they raided the camp, right?" he asks, looking over at the girl. 

Mary looks up from the packs, where she seems to be redistributing some of the supplies. "Unfortunately," she says. "I didn't want to be. Why?"

He stares at the empty bottle. "Did you kill them?"

"No." She shakes her head. "You ran first, someone else ran the other way, and the last two tried to fight Alexei before the girl pulled the other away in a third direction. Those two got injured though. They seem to still be alive, all of them." She points up at the bright blue sky. "They haven't appeared any of the last three nights."

"Three?" Anatole stares at her now. "Three?"  He puts the water bottle down. "I was out for three days…?"

Mary pauses. "Not, these three nights, but the nights after the raid. You weren't awake?"

"I was out for a  _ day _ ?" Anatole asks with an incredulous tone. It explains why he was so thirsty,  _ both _ times. At least Hélène and Dolokhov are alive. "Shit…" He slowly stands, wincing as he does so. Awkwardly, he presses his right hand to his side and hopes it isn't obvious how much pain he's in. "Do we have anymore water?" He limps over to his temporary ally and holds out his left hand for another water bottle. 

"We have two or three, I'm not sure," Mary says. "But maybe we should ration it?"

Anatole huffs. "There's a stream back that way," he says, waving his left arm in the general direction of where he came from.  _ I think _ . "Please?" 

Hesitantly, Mary digs a water bottle out from the bag on the right. "Alright," she mumbles. Anatole gladly takes the bottle out of her hand and drinks from it. 

"Thank  _ you _ ." He grins at her. She responds with a terse nod, and nothing more.

***

The burn on Anatole's stomach keeps him from moving much; in fact, neither of them move anywhere at all. He spends most of the day in the same clearing, pressed up against a tree, trying not to breathe too hard. God, it hurts so much. 

He's sort of thankful for Mary -- she certainly is helping him, but it seems forced, or fearful. She doesn't trust him. He shrugs it off and winces at the motion. At least he's getting water and a little bit of food and is burn tended to. If only she would talk to him. He takes a sip of water. If the burn doesn't drive him insane, the awkward silence between them will. 

Nearby is a tin of medicine, the good kind from the Capitol. It is very small and vanishing quickly, but he suppose it keeps the wound clean. It does seem to work; the burn is covered with a thin plasticy substance that acts as a sort of shield and dulls the pain ever so slightly. He wonders if it's a kind of liquid bandage, and also why he has that  _ and  _ the cumbersome cloth one. He would ask why, but simply thinking of the burn gives him a queasy feeling in his stomach. He avoids that thought as much as he cans and focuses on grazing his way through what little supplies were left in the two packs. 

By this point, his voice is back to normal, and he's had his first substantial food since the rabbit three days ago. Three? Four? He isn't quite sure. Losing consciousness a lot has screwed up his sense of time. He huffs and stares at the trees in front of him. Is it possible that Mary lied to him about Dolokhov and his sister being alive? The thought scares him. Mary is somewhere else right now, probably looking from the stream Anatole isn't even sure exists. Did she leave him for dead?

He moans from the pain and takes another tiny sip of water. He sure doesn't want to live if it means suffering like this for the rest of the Games.

***

The day passes slowly, agonizingly slowly, as he sits against a tree, unable to do anything except try not to take absolutely all of the food found and drift in and out of sleep. The pain keeps him from falling into a truly deep sleep, however, but he slips into weird dream like states every now and then. And somehow, the day goes by.

Nothing interesting happens until dusk, and Anatole is half asleep when someone else walks into camp. 

Anatole has slumped himself against the tree, his eyes half closed. Vaguely, he can hear someone crunching towards him (and hopefully Mary, he lost track of her last time he drifted off). "Hey," the ambiguous person sounds, a girl. 

"Welcome back, Sonya," Mary says, and Anatole shifts a little bit, confused. 

"Yeah… I'm surprised Alexei hasn't dragged Irina back again," the first girl says. "Good thing, huh?" She walks over to Mary. 

"It is. They left…  _ everything _ , when they ran." Mary shifts and kicks a rock gently towards Anatole. "It's definitely helpful. If only there were more than  _ bandages _ ." Sigh.

"Would be helpful, wouldn't it," the other girl muses. Anatole sits up a little bit straighter and opens his eyes a little bit more, but the girl has already walked out of his line of sight. He catches a glimpse of chestnut hair, but that's all. "Wouldn't it be too  _ easy _ though? From the Gamemakers' perspective? We're already supposed to be in the equivalent of hell here anyway."

Anatole tries to get a better look at the newcomer again, shifting and knocking a rock loose. It bounces down the roots of the tree loudly.

"Did you find that stream?" the girl asks Mary suddenly. 

After a pause, Mary replies. "Oh! Yeah, I did. It's this way." 

They walk into the woods after that, and Anatole is completely alone again.

***

Next day, Mary is back again, this time with a little bit of fish and some nuts. She offers Anatole some nuts when she notices he's awake, and he graciously takes them. They spend some time in a  _ very _ awkward silence, broken only by how loudly Anatole is chewing, before he breaks it with an even more awkward statement. "So, uh, who was that…?" he asks, rolling the nuts around in his hand. 

Mary shrugs. "Someone. Um. A teammate, I suppose," she says quietly. "She… Yeah. A teammate. We were separated by Alexei and Irina, and right now she's out getting food." She stares at the ground; Anatole nods.

"Is she going to come back?" he asks. Mary nods. 

"Later," she says. "Soon. I don't know, she just walked away." 

Anatole pops another nut into his mouth and once again, the conversation lapses into a silence somehow more awkward than before. This time, it doesn't last quite as long as before. "Do you think you can move…?" Mary asks. 

Anatole shrugs and winces. "Don't think so." He sits back against the tree and offers his best attempt at an apologetic smile, but he doesn't really succeed. 

"Well--" Mary stands up-- "then, we don't have to move today…" She shrugs. "Does your bandage need changing?" 

Anatole shakes his head. He doesn't know. Mary nods and pauses. "I'll go find her… We'll be back later, then." And then she's off, and the strange awkward silence is lifted in exchange for being alone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please i'm begging you remember it's sonya please oh my god please


	9. Chapter 9

That's how time passes for two more days: Mary walks off to hunt with the ambiguous girl whom Anatole has yet to talk to himself, but keeps seeing occasionally. And that works out well for the few days. 

It is the third day now, and Anatole is alone again, sipping from a water bottle and trying not to move too much. And he is incredibly bored. 

"If something doesn't happen, I'm going to  _ die _ of boredom," he mutters to himself, slouching against the tree and ignoring the sort of irony in his statement. All that happens is the gentle rustle of the trees in a gentle breeze, and Anatole groans and rests his head against the tree. "Come  _ on _ , something's gotta happen!" he groans at the sky. 

Nothing happens in the immediate area. In the distance, a branch snaps. Anatole huffs and slumps lower in the tree, curving against his burn and ignoring the pain in his stomach. "Please…?" he whines to nobody in particular.

He is about to get up himself and do something when there's a cannon shot.

He sits up suddenly, yelps at the burn, and looks around. Who was that? Who died? Who killed them? Are they near? Suddenly, the thought of something happening seems stupid. 

"Oh my god," he whispers, trying to look around. Scratch dying. He has to get out of here and fast. As fast as he can go, though. Even moving an inch forward hurts like hell but dying probably is going to hurt more, and he tries to keep moving when someone -- no, two people, a boy and a girl -- burst through the trees. 

Anatole panics.  _ They're going to kill me too they're going to kill me too they're going to kill me, _ he thinks, scrabbling for something in the dirt to defend himself. A stick, maybe, or a rock. His fingers dig into the dirt and find nothing. He stares for a second, ignoring the blood pounding in his ears, before his eyes focus on who they are and he relaxes immediately. "Finally," he breathes, the corner of his lips turning into a smile. His heartbeat slowly returns to normal. 

"Been a while," Dolokhov says.

***

Hélène is the first to talk. "So you don't look so good," she says, waving a hand at Anatole's stomach.

Anatole grimaces. " _ Don't _ remind me," he says, digging his fingers into the ground. "It wasn't pleasant. Or pretty."

"Sure doesn't look it," she says. Anatole looks between her and Dolokhov. They don't look great either: split lip, bloody nose, cuts and scrapes, and a big white wrap over Dolokhov's right arm. 

"...Are those from the fight?" he asks, looking away. 

Dolokhov shrugs. "Some of it. She fell out of a tree."

" _ You _ dragged me  _ up  _ the tree," Hélène retorts. 

"We were being tracked by the fuckers from District Two. Need I remind you that they're too stupid to look up?" 

_ At least one is _ , Anatole thinks, in reference to Alexei and the fire. "At least you weren't lit on fire," he says, sitting back. 

"You were  _ what _ ?" both of them chorus, and Anatole is forced to explain what happened, skimping on the details. 

"Burn's black…" he says, making a sort of ring motion around his stomach, "and beyond painful." He gives them a half-smile, half-grimace, and stops talking. 

Hélène crinkles her face up in disgust. "Ugh. That's  _ terrible _ , Anatole," she intones. 

Dolokhov seems more confused by the whole scenario. "How did you  _ survive _ that?" he questions, raising an eyebrow quizzically. "You're still the same person who told me he was dying when a  _ dead bush _ pricked his hand -- no offense -- right?" He leans forward and points at Anatole. 

Anatole blinks before slowly nodding. He had completely forgotten about his forehead and his hand after the burn; the pain from his stomach had completely blown those out of the water. He glances down at his left hand, which is still dotted with pale pockmarks from the bush. It no longer stings, however, and neither does the wound on his forehead. He brushes his hand against that and feels a thick, crusty scab. "I mean…" he says, shrugging. "I… Don't know either?"

"It's a good thing, relax," Dolokhov says, and Anatole wonders whether a smile actually flickered across his teammate's face, or if he is just imagining things.

Hélène looks over at the backpacks. "Wouldn't happen to be any food in there, would there?" she says. 

Anatole nods and pushes an open pack of crackers from besides him towards her. 

"Wonderful. We're all out." She pulls one of the saltines out and smiles. 

***

The rest of the evening into the night is uneventful. No one moves to make a fire, and it's warm enough to be bearable. Only one person flashes in the sky -- Mary, obviously -- and Anatole finds out from the others they are down to the Tributes from Two, Seven, Eleven, and Twelve, as well as the girl from Eight. Anatole absently wonders if the team is going to break up soon, given the ten left if his math is correct.

He doesn't dwell on that for very long, and drifts off to sleep quite easily despite the conditions. 

The next morning, the clunk of metal next to his ear wakes him up. Part of him wonders if running will be worth it when the cloth falls onto his face.

He sits up blearily and yelps at his stomach, pulling the parachute off of his face. In the dim pre-dawn light, he can just make out the small metal container. He blinks and reaches his fingers towards it. 

His first sponsor. 

From behind him, someone rustles. Anatole looks over his shoulder, scooping the tin up in his arms. "Hélène," he hisses, nudging his sister. 

"Hmm?" she asks. Slowly, she rolls over. "Whazzit?" 

Anatole holds up the metal tin and grins. "I think it's medicine," he says. "It's a sponsor."

Hélène rubs her eyes. "Really?" she says, squinting. "About time, too." She reaches for it. "If only we could get some  _ water _ ."

Both of them look up at the sky, but nothing happens. "I think Viola hates us," Anatole says after a pause. 

"Probably. Need me to put the medicine on?" Hélène offers. 

Anatole nods. "Please?" He leans back on his forearms and slips onto the ground. "And-- fast?" He winces, closing his eyes. 

Hélène opens the tin with a  _ click _ . It has a strong, medicinal smell. And it stings at first when she puts it on the burn. And then it doesn't. 

"I can't feel my fingers," Hélène mutters after a minute or two. 

"I can't feel my stomach," Anatole replies, sitting up. "Whoa, that's weird." 

Hélène clicks the tin shut. "Must've done something. Doesn't hurt, though?" She raises an eyebrow in concern. Anatole shakes his head and rolls forward. 

"I can't feel  _ anything _ ." He twists around, testing the nerves, and only gets a twinge or two. "Hell yeah." He stands up and grins. "That's a relief." 

"Perfect." She stands as well. 

Anatole walks around a little bit, in tiny circles to test the medicine. His torso is completely numb, almost as if he has never been burned, save for the weird feeling of a gaping hole in his stomach. It's unsettling at best, but he tries to ignore it. Best thing to do. At least he can function again.

The sun has risen a little bit more, and it's easier to discern colors than it was when the parachute fell. Dolokhov wakes up on his own soon enough. Anatole grins at him. "Morning~!" he says, feeling a lot better overall. 

"You seem chipper," Dolokhov growls in reply He rubs his eyes and squints at him. "That's some burn. Or am I imagining things?"

Anatole glances down, screws up his face in disgust, and looks away. "Well  _ someone _ didn't put the bandage back on," he says, pointing at Hélène. She rolls her eyes. 

"He got some medicine, some nerve numbing cream. He can't feel  _ anything _ . And I can't feel my fingertips." She wiggles her fingers and stares at it.

Dolokhov nods. "My other guess would be magic," he mutters, standing up. "Good thing too. You're useful again."

Something about the way he says that doesn't sit right with Anatole, but he brushes it off pretty quickly and rocks back and forth on his heels. "You bet I am. Although we should have plenty of supplies to last us quite a while, right? At least until the end of the Games?" He tilts his head.

Dolokhov shakes his head. "We don't know how long the Games will be--" he mutters something unintelligible here, but Anatole doesn't question-- "and we still need water." He motions towards the packs, lying on their sides with equipment lying around them in a way vastly different to what they were last night. The three stare at it in silence. 

"What happened?" Hélène asks. 

"Scratch the having supplies then…" Anatole grumbles, kicking a clod of dirt. 

Dolokhov holds up a hand and walks over. "How bout this…" He crouches down and rummages through the bags, trying to see what is still there. "I'll look through this, you go find food or something. Berries, maybe. Or you can hit something with a stick." He turns around. "Since most of this is gone." 

Anatole groans in frustration. "Really?" he whines.

"Who took it?" Hélène asks. "An animal?" 

Dolokhov shakes his head. "Nope. But I don't know who." He stands up and brushes dirt off of his pants. "We only have some bandages and some cooking utensils, and maybe some jerky if there was any on the bottom of the pack. There goes that plan." 

Anatole deflates entirely. Hélène rubs his shoulder gently. 

"Well? What are we waiting for?" Dolokhov says impatiently, picking up a bag and throwing it over his shoulder.


	10. Chapter 10

They trek through the woods throughout the early morning, searching for berries and other things to eat. They don't have much luck, and end up with a few roots and nuts split between them. They aren't the most appetizing. 

The sun is just visible of the tops of the trees when two things happen: the cream starts wearing off on Anatole's burn, and there's a strange rumbling sound in the distance. 

The trio stop. "What's that?" Hélène asks, peering through the trees. 

"I don't know, can we slow down?" Anatole says, hissing through his teeth as the pain resurfaces. 

Dolokhov shakes his head. "It sounds like a river…" he says. He looks over at Anatole. "Water, food…?" 

Hélène shrugs. "I guess. Best hope we got."

Anatole says nothing, just presses a hand awkwardly against his side and tries to ignore the return of the pain. They start walking again on the gentle slope towards the rumble. The trees stop abruptly -- and so does the land. Dolokhov catches his shoulder and keeps Anatole from plummeting off a cliff and down a steep drop into the churning water at least twenty feet below. 

"Holy shit," Anatole breathes, stumbling back against the treeline. "Well." 

"This must be the waterfall by the lake," Hélène says. She looks down at the smooth cliff face. "Looks like it'll kill you." 

Anatole shudders. "Glad I didn't fall then." He swallows hard. 

"Stick to the treeline and go that way," Dolokhov says, jabbing a finger in the other direction. "It's safer that way." He adjusts the backpack on his shoulders and marches off. Anatole rubs his side and glances over at Hélène, who shrugs and walks on ahead.

***

"I think we're being followed," Anatole says a few minutes later. 

"What makes you think that?" Hélène replies. The three have stopped upstream from the waterfall for a break. The current here is still strong, taking leaves and huge sticks along with it. Anatole puffs and shrugs. 

"I think I heard someone. And I'm in the back, I should know." He traces a pattern in the mud with his finger. "There was someone behind me. It was really quiet, could be an animal or something." He glances over at Dolokhov. 

Dolokhov looks back at him. "You have a point. It's something to keep an eye on." He picks up the spear and scans the trees behind them. 

"You're probably just paranoid," Hélène says in what might be supposed to be a reassuring voice. 

"Given that last time I wasn't careful I was set on  _ fire _ , I kind of have a right to be," Anatole scoffs. "Speaking of the burn, can I have more of that cream?" 

Hélène shakes her head. "Wouldn't want to use it all up too fast. You can deal."

Anatole grudgingly nods. From in front of them, there's a rustle as Dolokhov picks up the backpack again. Anatole groans. " _ Again _ ?" 

"Well, if we're being tracked, we want to move as much as we can. Throw them off." Dolokhov shrugs. 

Hélène holds up a hand. "We are  _ not _ climbing another goddamn tree." 

"With his burn? No, not what I meant," Dolokhov replies. "I mean somewhere with a calmer current. Where we can get water. Maybe even fish. Set up a camp. Unless, of course, you want to use more the nerve-killing cream." 

Anatole shakes his head. "No trees. Not right now."

"Then  _ let's go _ ," Dolokhov says, exasperated. He beckons for them to get up. 

Anatole slowly rises, sending a quick glance behind him. 

Ominously, the trees rustle. He looks away fast enough.

***

Anatole makes them stop as soon as they reach a nice, flat riverbank with a calmer flow than downstream because of his burn. 

He stretches out on the bank, trying not to breathe too deeply in order to not disturb his wound, and digs his fingers into the ground. The sky above is clouding over, puffy gray clouds blowing over the sun. He squints. "D'you think it's going to rain?" he asks.

"Would be a blessing and a curse," Dolokhov says from behind him. "Water, but… It would chase most things off." 

Hélène sits down next to Anatole. "Let's hope it doesn't til we're not… out here in the open," she muses, brushing her fingers through Anatole's hair. "You doing okay?"

"The stuff wore off," he groans. "Can I have more?"

There's a pause and something behind them snaps. Anatole jumps. "...I'm not going to give you some right now," Hélène says. "There's a tiny amount and we know our mentors hate us."

"What snapped?" Anatole asks, craning his neck to look behind him.

"Threat of rain means gather wood now for later." Dolokhov shrugs, holding a pair of sticks in his hands. "Common sense," he says condescendingly. He reaches up to snap another branch. 

Anatole runs his hand over the ground, smoothing the dust out. "Okay then." 

They sit in silence for a while, occasionally broken by the sound of Dolokhov breaking branches, when the first fat raindrop hits the ground right besides Anatole's left ear. Another falls, and another, and then it is suddenly pouring. In no time at all, the trio are soaked to the skin. 

Anatole sits up slowly and groans, trying to peel his shirt away from his sopping dressing. "This isn't what I meant," he mutters. 

"Well, it's what you got," Dolokhov says, throwing a stick into the woods. "We need to find shelter."

"The Gamemakers were listening." Hélène grabs Anatole's outstretched hand and helps him to his feet. "You don't say?" she calls to Dolokhov, who is grabbing a backpack. "Where to, Captain Obvious?"

"Oh, shut  _ up _ ," Dolokhov growls, throwing the backpack on his shoulders and pointing to the trees with his spear. Anatole gives his sister a meek shrug and the two follow him.

***

They walk for a long time in the pouring rain before Anatole forces them to stop again. Pain and rain blurring his vision are making it impossible for him to function; on top of that, some part of him swears something in the trees is following them. But he trusts Dolokhov in saying that no one else would think of the trees, so he doesn't comment on it. He just sits down on a large tree root and presses against the trunk, whimpering. "It hurts, it hurts, it hurts," he repeats like a twisted mantra. 

"We get it," Dolokhov says. "At least it's relatively sheltered here…" 

He isn't wrong, as the trees are forming a sort of natural canopy that blocks out the worst of the rain in this area. Anatole squints up at the sky and brushes a wet strand of hair out of hise face. "I suppose. Can I  _ please _ have more burn cream?" He sticks out his lip in an attempt to garner pity. 

Hélène nods before Dolokhov can object and pulls out the tin. Before she can say or do anything, something in the tree above rustles and a nut falls down and knocks Anatole on his old forehead wound. As one, everyone looks up at the swaying branches. Vaguely, Anatole thinks he can see a flash of skin through the branches, but water drips into his eyes and he can't see it anymore.

After a pause, Anatole speaks. "...What was that?" 

"A squirrel?" Hélène suggests, glancing at Dolokhov. Dolokhov's lips are a flat line. He shakes his head.

"It could be…" he says, "...or the competition isn't quite as stupid as we thought." He tightens his grip on the spear. 

"Who would it be, though?" Anatole asks, shaken by the possibility of being tracked. 

Dolokhov shrugs. "At this stage in the game? It could be anyone." 

He stops after that and looks back up at the tree. The near silence is strangely ominous, broken only by the steady rain. 

Anatole shudders and tries not to think about that. 

***

The rain picks up a few hours later, and once again, they force themselves to set off and find better shelter. Water is practically coming down in sheets, soaking through the backpack and ruining what little supplies they had left. On top of all that, it's freezing cold with a biting wind, chilling them to the bone. 

"We're going to fucking freeze to death," Hélène groans as they trudge along. 

Anatole rubs his arms and shivers. "Mmm, I hope not," he mumbles, flipping his wet hair out of his face. 

"What a way to go." 

They drop into silence again, having not much to say at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spooky
> 
> lots short chapters rn whoops sorry if this is boring


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw violence for this chapter  
> just enough to warrant a summary at the end

The best shelter is back at the riverbank, on the slope close to the waterfall. Rocks jut out everywhere along the cliff face, and they make shelter on a smooth, relatively flat, and thankfully dry one just underneath the top. The rumble of water mixes into the sound of the rain, providing a constant reminder of the weather outside. At least it's dry here. 

Anatole presses against the back wall, shaking and shivering from cold and pain. A while ago, endorphins kicked in, and he chuckles strangely. "W-w-we're not g-going to d-ie," he says rubbing his arms with a weird, nearly psychotic grin. 

Hélène reaches out a hand towards Anatole's shoulder. "You o-kay?" she says.

"C-calm down. We're n-not out of the woods yet," Dolokhov says, reaching back for some sort of dried leaves or other natural debris blown past here by the wind. "If we can't g-get a god-d-damn fire going, w-we might be--"

"Sh-h-h," Anatole says. He sticks out a hand to try and get Dolokhov to shut up; the last thing Anatole needs to be thinking about right now is death. "N-n-not right n-now." 

Dolokhov huffs. "Al-right," he says. 

Anatole chuckles again. Stress, cold, and pain make for an odd, chemically induced sort of euphoria in his brain. He holds up his hands and looks at his tremoring fingertips. "I c-can't fe-e-el  _ anythi-ing  _ except-t for my b-burn."

"Pass-s me a sti-ick," Dolokhov says, motioning for one of the hopefully dry twigs scattered against the cliff face. Anatole pokes one at him and winces. 

"I want some medicine," he says, rubbing his side. "P-please, I made it h-here." He pushes another twig towards Dolokhov pitifully. In the dim light, he can barely see what anyone is doing. 

"Of course," Hélène says before anyone can interrupt. She holds out a hand for the container. "It's been long enough, and it might make you less…  _ giggly _ ." 

Dolokhov pushes the tin towards her with a hideous scraping sound and rummages in the backpack for something else. Anatole grins at his sister and stretches out awkwardly so she can put it on easier. Hélène peels the old bandage off before twisting the tin open and flinging the mushy gauze off the rock. 

Anatole closes his eyes and waits for the magic medicine. 

On top of them, the rain continues to drone on. 

***

Somehow, Dolokhov successfully starts a fire. It's small, pitiful, and mostly glowing embers, but it seems to do wonders for the temperature in the alcove. Maybe now they could dry off, although the pools of water that has dripped off of their clothing isn't conducive to that. But they have a fire. Freezing to death seems less likely.

Anatole curls around the tiny flame, far enough away to not be worried about relighting but still close enough for warmth. He stares into the embers for a while, his cheek pressed against the cool rock, and yawns. " _ Now _ it's safe to say we're not going to die," he says through the yawn.

"For the most part," Dolokhov muses. "The rain hopefully is going to die off tomorrow, given how steady it's been for now… The river's probably close to flooding, too, which could mean hell for us." He pokes carefully at the flickering flame and tries to coax it up from the ashes. 

On top of the, the rain drums against the rock in the same uneasy rhythm as always. "Or, the Gamemakers could be trying to kill the useless Careers off," Hélène mutters, pointing at the rain. "Because other than the burn, it hasn't been very eventful surrounding us." 

"Want  _ me  _ to help with that?" Dolokhov snaps. "Believe me, I could."

She shakes her head with a grimace. "No thank you." 

"I don't wanna die either," Anatole says childishly, looking up at Dolokhov. He curls his fingers on the rock. "Not yet at least."

"I was-- never mind." Dolokhov pushes against the back of the alcove with a huff. "We're all too stressed for this."

Hélène laughs drily. " _ That's _ a word for it." 

"So do we have any food?" Anatole asks in an attempt to change the subject. 

***

They do not have any food.

The rain does not let up for the rest of the day. 

Anatole falls asleep later hungry. 

The next morning, Anatole wakes up shivering and in a pool of water. His shirt clings uncomfortably to his skin and his bandage is… somewhere. His burn right now is a dull ache, but he knows it isn't going to stay that way. He rubs his eye and sits up, looking around at his sleeping teammates. Sunlight angles into the shelter. 

Sunlight.

Anatole grins, reaching forward and nudging his sister. "Hélène," he whispers. "Hé- _ lène _ !"

She rolls over. "Hmm?" she asks, blinking drearily. 

Anatole points childishly outside. "The rain's stopped," he says, sitting back under the rock. From next to them, Dolokhov speaks.

"Good." He sits up and stretches. "We can go out--" he yawns-- "and get food."

"We have to…?" Anatole says, deflating. 

Dolokhov sticks his head out of the alcove. "Yeah, what did you think?" He pulls his head in quickly. "We'll leave that way, the waterfall's going crazy." He steps out from that side and Anatole exchanges a quick look with Hélène. 

"How did we even get in here…?" she says to no one in particular, but she ducks out all the same. 

Anatole shrugs and crawls out, searching for a good stance on the rocky surface. He pulls himself up to the top of the slope and groans. "Are we going to come back?" he asks, rolling onto his back. 

"It  _ is _ a good spot," Hélène agrees. "Need some more medicine?"

" _ Yes _ ." 

Dolokhov rolls his eyes. "Jesus, can't even go one day," he mutters. "Sure, we can stay there for a bit."

"Let me  _ go _ ," Anatole whines, "cause it  _ hurts _ ."

Hélène coughs. "I'll give you enough to last us the morning, but that's it," she says. "Then we'll go get food one way."

Dolokhov waves a hand. "Have fun with that, I'm going that way." With that, he's off again, and Hélène ducks back down into the cave to get the medicine. Anatole stretches out on the grass and stares up at the orange sky. 

***

"So," Hélène says as they walk along the swollen river in search of something to eat, "the burn is healing, I think. Not as red." 

Anatole shrugs and kicks a twig into the current. "Yeah…" he says, pulling his shirt away from his body. The sun hasn't done much to dry his clothing at all. He glances at his sister and sighs. "I just wanna go home."  He doesn't mean for it to sound as whiny as it comes out. 

Hélène nods in agreement and puts her arm around his shoulders. "Same, same…" She trails off, leaving something unsaid. Anatole doesn't want to think about what.

"Soon enough!" he says instead, and walks forward. He sits down by the river and dangles his feet in the current. "It's gonna be weird, going back to District One again, eh?" The water is cold around his ankles. Childishly, he splashes. "We'll be heroes, one of many but still…" 

Hélène doesn't respond to that, and Anatole frowns. But then she speaks: "C'mon. We have to get food or else." She pats his shoulder. Slowly, Anatole stands, and the two walk in near silence for a few minutes, before drifting into the woods. 

The dim morning light makes it difficult to see in the thick trees. Water drips from the branches like a second rain, and leaves brush against Anatole's legs. He squints in the darkness, unsure of what he's searching for, when something -- no, some _ one _ \-- locks eyes with him from behind a tree. The person stares at him with some sort of questioning expression in those brown eyes. Then, they vanish. The only sign they were there is the rustling trees. Anatole shivers. 

He glances at Hélène, who meets him with a similar expression to what Anatole imagines he looks like. She saw them too, whoever it was. "We… should get out of here," he hisses, grabbing for his sister's wrist. She nods in agreement. The two run back the way they came, leaving broken foliage behind them.

They break onto the riverbank. The wet grass is difficult to find purchase on, and they slip around for a second before Anatole finds his balance and steadies Hélène as best as he can. She stops sliding and holds her arms out for balance. "Th-thanks," she pants. She looks like she's about to say something else, but a blur of clothing and metal slams into her and knocks her and Anatole to the ground. 

Anatole hits the ground face first. Impact disorients him for a second, and then he realizes he no longer can feel his sister. Panic shoots through him as he sits up and looks wildly around. 

Hélène is lying on her back next to him, clawing and kicking at another girl -- a  _ familiar _ girl, the girl who was with Mary, Sonya? -- trying to attack her, in a desperate attempt to push her off. The other girl has a strange expression on her face, not fear or bloodlust or anything like that at all. It's something else entirely. Anatole stares in awe for a second before he stands up and tries to pull her off of Hélène. 

It works. The girl falls backward against the ground, knocking against Anatole's knees. Worried, Anatole grabs for Hélène's arm and pulls her to her feet. "Are you okay…?" he asks tentatively. There's a nice cut on her forehead, dripping blood over her eye, and a nick at her throat. 

She shakes her head. "Look ou--" 

He doesn't hear what she says, once again being knocked to the ground with a kick to the back of his knee. Pain shoots through his temple, pounding against his skull. He doesn't get up as quick this time either. The world is spinning. 

When he looks over this time, the girl and his sister and four or five copies of them are fighting again, this time on their feet. They're dangerously close to the water. Anatole doesn't know what to do, as standing is enough to make him want to throw up. He doesn't have time to, though, if the ominous rumble behind them tells him anything. 

As one, everyone stops and looks behind them at the huge wall of water bearing down on them. 

Anatole can feel his blood run cold at the sight. 

Adrenaline propels him to his feet. The water is closer with every heartbeat. Much too quickly for his own good, he whirls around. "Hé--" he begins, reaching out for someone, anyone. The rumbling gets closer, the dizziness gets worse, vaguely Anatole can see someone getting shoved in the direction of the water--

He doesn't think much, just lunges forward, grabs someone's wrist, and dives for the woods. His face hits the ground for the third time with the sounds of the flash flood spilling past them and someone's scream. Something about that scream unsettles him beyond words can describe. 

And then he looks up and realizes that the person next to him  _ isn't _ his sister, and all the blood drains from his face. 

The other girl stands and stares at him and Anatole has no idea what to do so he does the same, and then they both start running, except she goes in the direction of the woods and Anatole is running blindly to the waterfall, screaming for his sister. The vertigo hasn't gone away yet, and it's all he can do to not pitch headfirst down the slope. His feet pound the dirt faster and faster and faster and faster and his voice is going hoarse from screaming and he doesn't care. He skids down the grass, stumbling and sliding, and suddenly he can see the pond below and something floating in the water and  _ not moving _ and the water around it is turning red.

"Hélène…!" he coughs, wading into the water to pull what is  _ definitely _ his sister, he can see it for sure now. He grabs her shirt and starts pulling her to shore--

The cannon goes off. 

Anatole shakes his head. "No, no, no no, no, no no, no…" he keeps repeating, over and over again, shaking her, trying to get her to move, and it isn't working. Denial and disbelief fuel his actions. He starts whimpering and repeating her name over and over again, as if to bring her back to life. She  _ can't  _ be dead, she  _ can't _ be dead, she  _ can't _ be dead, she  _ can't _ be…

He doesn't even register the outside world, not the buzzing of the hovercraft above him, or the footsteps behind him, or even how unbelievably cold the water is around him. He can only stare at his sister and try to will her to breathe, to move, to say something,  _ anything _ , to tell him that he didn't hear a cannon shot, but instead all he gets is a heavy, cold,  _ lifeless _ body and he starts crying, shaking. 

Someone puts their hand on his shoulder and he jumps, completely surprised at Dolokhov's sudden arrival. "...Are you okay…?" he asks Anatole, although his voice sounds like he's talking through a tank of water. Anatole thinks he shakes his head, although he's lost right now, and he can't register what he's doing. He closes his eyes and turns back to the pond. Vaguely, he feels Hélène get pushed off of him into the water. "Come on. Let's go back to the cave, then…" he hears Dolokhov say. 

Slowly, he rises, wiping at his eyes with his hands. Numbness washes over him from head to toe, and by the time they've walked back up into the cave, he can't feel anything at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anatole almost freezes to death, but the rain stops  
> anatole and helene go out to get food. helene is attacked. she is tossed in the river in dies.


	12. Chapter 12

He isn't too aware of anything that happens for the rest of the day. He sits in the cave for the most part, staring at the ground and picking at it. Dolokhov isn't around most of the day, either, only occasionally coming back with something small to eat. Anatole doesn't know. He really doesn't care either. He's just… numb. 

He can't remember sleeping or not, either. He must have fallen asleep, though, because the next morning comes much too early, much too quickly, and much too chilly. A breeze blows through the cave, whistling past his ears, and he doesn't notice it at first. 

He doesn't have much time to sit around today though. Dolokhov starts talking right away. 

"We need to move fast," he says, shaking out the used bandages off of the rock. "Too close to the end of the Games. Gamemakers pushing us towards--" he throws the backpack over his shoulders-- "the center. Too dangerous to stay here." 

Anatole doesn't move, just nods. "Sure," he says. He barely listens to Dolokhov, barely moves his eyes from the ground. 

Dolokhov huffs. "I meant now, Anatole," he says, snapping his fingers.

Anatole still doesn't move. "Uh-huh."

"Oh, for Christ's sake--" Dolokhov moves forward and slaps Anatole in the face. Hard. 

_ That _ Anatole registers. It stings like a bitch and snaps him out of it. "Ow…" he whimpers, rubbing his face. "What was that for?"

Dolokhov doesn't look happy when he meets Anatole's eyes. "You need to snap the fuck out of it," he growls, forcing Anatole to look at him. "I gave you a day. That was generous." His voice is harsh. "Do you still want to be teamed or not? Because I'm seriously tempted to just fucking up and leave you here if you're just going to sit here being sorry for yourself. She's dead. There's nothing any of us can do to change that, got it? There will be plenty of time for mourning later, hell, tonight, even, if you absolutely  _ have _ to. But right now? We have to get the hell out of here. So you have a choice to make. Either you follow me--" he jerks his thumb at himself-- "or you stay here,  _ alone _ , and starve to death. So?" 

Anatole blinks, processing what Dolokhov is saying. "I…" he begins. 

Dolokhov nods to prod him on. 

"....I don't know." Anatole drops his gaze weakly, clutching his thin limbs together. "Please… just… one more day?" 

"Oh my god." Dolokhov shakes his head. "Well. Good bye, Anatole. It was nice working with you." With that, he slides out of the cave and leaves. 

"Wait…" Anatole breathes, stretching out a hand to try and hold on to Dolokhov. But it's too late. He's gone. 

For a while, Anatole sits there, vaguely aware of the silence. 

And then it hits him.

The silence. 

For far from the first time, he is alone. 

Something pushes him out of the cave and onto the ground. Something makes him run, despite the pain in his torso. Something forces him down the hill towards the lake. 

***

The lake is devoid of people. Of course it is. Dolokhov isn't stupid; the lake is too close to the previous camp to be safe, which does nothing but narrow his location to the entirety of the woods. Anatole groans and keels over into the mud, clutching his stomach in pain. Running after his teammate -- former teammate? -- is the stupidest thing he's done so far, save for letting Dolokhov walk away. He rolls onto his back and stares up at the sky, closing his eyes to the harsh sun.

Somewhere, somewhere, somewhere… Somewhere was difficult to imagine when it could be anywhere.

Anatole moans in frustration as he sits up. Stupid, stupid, stupid. If anyone caught him now, he'd be dead,  _ very _ dead. He bites his lip and stands up, shaking. Death doesn't sound too bad right now, though. Be much better than this. 

He shuts his eyes and shakes his head. What he doesn't want to do is die alone. The near-silence shakes him to the core. He looks around the lake one last time, takes a deep breath, and walks into the woods, much, much slower this time. 

***

He can't make it much further. 

So he collapses in a clearing and rolls onto his back, writhing in pain. 

All around him, the birds chirp far too cheerily. Sunlight filters through the trees onto his face, a gentle breeze rustles the leaves, and somewhere beyond him, a twig snaps under something's weight. The sounds of the forest. 

He stares at the sky, watching the clouds roll by. He hasn't had much luck so far, which seems to be a first. He stretches out onto the grass and sighs. He has never been good about planning ahead. So he just lies there, waiting for the pain to die away (if it will) so that he can keep moving. 

At some point, he closes his eyes --

***

\--and he is back on the riverbank, frozen once more in front of Hélène and the other girl, with the water coming down behind them. The world is still spinning in front of him. He stumbles for a second, shouting out her name. Panicked, he reaches out to grab for someone, anyone -- and  _ misses _ .

The flood is getting closer, a huge wave casting an equally large shadow over the three of them. Anatole whirls around to try and grab Hélène's wrist. Desperately grabbing out, he latches onto her, but she doesn't even notice him. The girl is fighting so hard to push her down and then the wave hits them.

A wash of cold water slams against Anatole and he tumbles heels over head into the river, his hand still tight around his sister's wrist. Water, water everywhere, surrounding him on all sides. He sinks like a stone, towards the bottom of the river, before something kicks in and he starts panicking, swimming with as much strength as he can to propel him to the surface. Eventually, he breaks the surface, gasping and shaking for breath, and he can't breathe at all, trying to reach a hand out for anything to grab onto, anything at all, and the current is pushing him along.

He tries to regain control, wiping water out of his face. Water drips from his soaking bangs and streams into his eyes and keeps him from seeing straight. He takes huge gulping breaths of air. Next to him, something washes along, and something washes up in front of him -- and he smashes against a rock, seeing stars. Blood slides down his head and into his vision. He wipes it away as fast he can, trying to tread water, or cling to the rock or both, but more pours down. He gives a panicked squeak as his fingers slide on the smooth, slick rock, and then he realizes that he no longer has a hold on Hélène. 

"N-" he starts to yell, and then he loses his grip on the rock and tumbles off into the stream, towards an unmoving, vaguely human-shaped object. They collide. Anatole lets out a weird, inhuman noise upon recognizing his sister. He clutches onto her shirt and shakes her gently in the water, trying to wake her up. He barely has time to do anything before plunging off of the waterfall and slamming into the ground. Water splashes up around him. he is barely conscious anymore. The world spins and the waterfall falls onto him, a steady  _ drip, drip, drip... _

He wakes up with a start, water dripping onto his forehead from the tree above him and Dolokhov standing over him, pointing his spear at Anatole's throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and thus, the character development begins


	13. Chapter 13

Anatole panics, scrambling backwards until he hits a tree and can't move any farther, before realizing exactly who it is with the spear. "Oh, thank God," Anatole breathes, clutching his stomach in pain. 

"What the  _ fuck _ , Anatole," Dolokhov growls. He doesn't quite seem as happy to see Anatole as Anatole had presumed he would be.

"What… what do you mean, what the fuck?" Anatole says, glancing wildly from the tip of Dolokhov's spear to Dolokhov's cold expression. "I thought…" 

"You thought what? Did you not hear me? Done, Anatole." Dolokhov waves his free hand, as if writing in mid air. "D-O-N-E. Got that?" He moves the spear closer to him and Anatole flinches away.

"Look, look, I just… I just…" he stammers, holding up an arm in front of his throat. "Please give me another chance, please, I just don't want to be alone any--"

"No!" Dolokhov stabs at him with the spear and Anatole rolls away as best as he can. The metal tip slices into his shoulder. he tries his best not to cry out. "I don't  _ care _ , Anatole," Dolokhov says. 

Anatole shakes his head. "But--"

"But  _ what _ ?" He pulls the spear back. "What can change my mind? How did you even  _ get _ here?"

Anatole shrugs, shielding his face. "I… walked? Crawled?  I don't even know…" he says, shaking. "It hurt."

He shuts his eyes, thinking that Dolokhov is going to swing again. After nothing happens, he slowly opens his eyes again. "Well…?" he asks. 

"You mean to tell me you --  _ you,  _ who thought you were going to die because of a  _ dead bush _ , actually crawled from the cave to here?" Dolokhov asks, with more disbelief in his voice than Anatole thinks he has ever heard from any human being before.

Anatole nods slowly. "I… I guess I did…?" he said, lowering his hand. "Does that change your mind?"

Dolokhov keeps opening and shutting his mouth, trying to say something, before sighing and dropping his spear to the ground. "I don't know. For now," he says, sighing. "For  _ now _ ." 

Anatole relaxes. "We're teamed again?" he says brightly. 

Dolokhov doesn't seem to agree, but he nods anyway. "If this keeps up, then I suppose," he mutters, "but no promises on too late…" He trails off into something that sort of sounds like "kill you in your sleep if I must", but Anatole doesn't question it. "Well, let's go find another camp, shall we?" He picks up the spear again and motions for Anatole to come with him. 

Anatole stands slowly. "Sure!" he says, although he thinks that the clearing right here would be a perfect place to camp. He chooses not to complain, winces once again (why did he leave the magic cream behind?), and follows Dolokhov through the woods.

***

They walk until the sun sets behind the trees and the light is orange in the sunset. And until Anatole's incessant complaining makes them stop. 

They end up camped by a hollow tree, with a hole big enough for one person to lie underneath it. Anatole sits down and claims it. "Do we ha--" he begins.

" _ Yes _ ," Dolokhov snaps. "How the hell do you survive at home?" 

Anatole stares at the ground, drawing lines in the dirt. "We had food, you… didn't?" He looks up, confused. 

"Not always," Dolokhov mutters. He leans back against the tree trunk. "You know how lucky you were?" 

Anatole shakes his head. "Not really." He tries to make light of the situation. "I mean, I'm still  _ here _ so--"

"Haven't we had this conversation?" Dolokhov says, handing Anatole a handful of nuts. "Shut up and eat. Not in the mood for this again."

Anatole blinks and takes the nuts. "Oops. Sorry…" he mumbles. He starts to chew on them quietly.

They lapse into silence, and Anatole stares at nothing. The silence isn't quite uncomfortable, but it's still silence, and the crunching from the nuts isn't very helpful in this case. He shuffles back and forth before saying, "I wonder if anyone died today." He glances over at Dolokhov, who shakes his head. 

"Nope. No cannons." He sighs. "Not quite a good thing either. With the amount of people left…" He looks up at the sky, and Anatole follows his gaze towards the darkening clouds. The sky is covered with a thin blanket of clouds that seems to be thickening every second, threatening even more rain. Anatole ducks his head back under the tree. The rain isn't something he wants nor needs right now, especially since his clothing hasn't even properly dried off yet. 

"What do you mean, with the amount of people left," he says, picking at the ground. 

Dolokhov huffs. "I mean, the Gamemakers are probably up there beating their heads into their perfectly polished desks because we re-teamed. If no one dies tomorrow, they're gonna interfere." 

Anatole nods and stares aimlessly at the ground. "Ugh. Why are we here…?" he mutters, but he doesn't really expect an answer. 

"Fuck the Capitol," Dolokhov replies simply. 

Anatole just shrugs. 

***

The next morning, it is raining again. Not hard, not hard at all, but just enough of a steady drizzle to be annoying. Anatole pushes himself further into the tree trunk. "I don't want to," he says, hiding his head in his hands. 

"Oh, come on, Anatole--" Dolokhov grabs his wrist and tugs-- "we don't have a choice in the matter."

Anatole pulls his arm back and hugs his knees. "But it's  _ raining _ ," he whines. His eyes meet Dolokhov's, trying to look pitiable. "And I just--"

Dolokhov sighs. "You just  _ what _ ? We're both still damp." He points up at the gray sky. "What's a little drizzle going to do?" He stands up. "Come  _ on _ . We have to keep moving, or the Gamemakers  _ are _ going to get us." 

Anatole stares meekly back at Dolokhov. "But i-it's cold and…" he begins. He trails off once he catches a glance at his partner's crossed arms. "...but the rain killed Hélène…" He can hear how childish he sounds, and he shuts up. "One second…" he finally says, in defeat.

"Hurry. Every second we spend here is another second they got on us," Dolokhov says, turning and walking away. "And--" he stops walking to call over his shoulder-- "the rain didn't kill Hélène. The girl did."

Anatole watches his receding footsteps for a moment and mutters into the ground, "The river killed her because of the rain," before scrambling out from under the tree. His burn twinges, but he ignores it as best he can. He  _ has _ gotten better at that. Water drips from the tree branches above onto his face. He wipes his eyes and squints after Dolokhov. "Wait!" he calls, walking quickly so as to catch up. He falls right into step next to him and puffs out a breath. 

Dolokhov looks at him strangely, but not a  _ bad _ strangely. "For someone with a burn, you're moving fairly well," he says with an odd tone. 

"I guess," Anatole replies, trying not to sound too proud. "I  _ have _ been coping for a while." 

"I suppose. A week." Dolokhov stops walking. "A week… That means we've been here twelve days."

Anatole looks back at him. "Twelve days…?" he says. "That long…?" 

Dolokhov nods, counting on his fingers. "Mhm. Fourteen dead in twelve days. Pretty slow for a Games." 

As if on cue, a cannon rings out, and both of them jump. The echoes of the shot fade away into the steady drip of the rain. They sit there in silence, until Dolokhov says, "Fifteen, then," and shakes his head slowly. 

Anatole shudders and wonders who that was for, and how close they were to him. He glances over his shoulder at the clearing and the hollow tree back behind them. 

"Let's keep moving, in case that was close by," Dolokhov says. With that, he starts walking through the trees again along a deer path. Anatole follows him with a strange sense of paranoia nagging at the back of his mind. He keeps his mouth shut. 

Another cannon fires. 

"...Sixteen," Dolokhov says hesitantly. 

Anatole rubs his forearm until it's a subdued pink, anxiety gnawing at his stomach.  Every snap of a branch, every rustle of leaves leads him to look behind him. Something tells him that something is following them. One glance at Dolokhov makes him think he should keep his mouth shut. 

Still, for the rest of the morning, he can't shake the feeling of a pursuer. And no matter how he  _ tries _ to steer Dolokhov, he can't seem to shake the pursuer either. 

***

Sometime around noon, the rain stops again, but the clouds stay in the area, giving a sort of uneasy, half-finished feeling to the area. Overhead, the sky darkens ever more, growing grayer and grayer every time Anatole looks up. It carries the threat of storms. He shudders. 

"Something wrong?" Dolokhov asks. He has stopped walking. 

Anatole points at the sky. "You don't think it's going to  _ storm _ , do you?" he asks. 

Dolokhov looks up and shrugs. "Probably, since you've said something. Why not throw a thunderstorm at us as well?" He leans against a tree. "Light half the arena on fire with a lightning strike. More floods." 

Anatole bites his lip. "I  _ hate _ storms…." he whispers, looking down. 

"Oh?" Dolokhov walks towards him. "How bad?" 

"Really bad." He shakes his head. "Panic attack bad." The mere thought of a thunderstorm isn't sitting well with him.

Dolokhov whistles a low note. "Then let's hope it holds off for a while…" he says, sighing. "If it's gonna hinder you  _ that badly _ ." He rests a hand on Anatole's shoulder for a second before turning away. "In the meantime, we should find somewhere in this area for some actual shelter." 

Anatole looks up at him and nods. "Yeah, that… That could help." He drops his arms and looks back up at the thick gray clouds, almost black against the sky. A gust of wind blows the trees around him ominously, leaves rustling against the branches. Anatole covers his face with his arm to shield himself from the wind. 

Up above, the sky continues to darken. Anatole looks down and catches up to Dolokhov, ducking his head to avoid looking at the clouds. 

***

"Hey, Dolokhov?" Anatole asks after some moments in silence. They've been walking through the woods for a while, all the way keeping an eye out for a good shelter from the oncoming storm. Anatole is in desperate need of a break.

"Hm?" Dolokhov says, turning around. "What is it?"

Anatole shrugs and sits down on a tree root, wincing. His stomach is  _ killing _ him. He wouldn't be surprised if it literally would. "What's your first name?" he asks. He looks up with a curious expression on his face.

Dolokhov blinks at him. "My first name?" he repeats. He leans against an adjacent tree and crosses his arms casually. "Why do you need to know?"

"Just curious." Anatole shrugs and offers him a sort of smile. "I thought since we've known each other two weeks now, I should know."

Dolokhov shakes his head. "You don't have to know," he says mysteriously, turning his gaze to the trees beyond. "It's not important information."

" _ Please _ , Dolokhov?" Anatole begs. All that did was make him want to know even more. "What's the big secret surrounding it?"

"I… It's not important, that's all." He shakes his head again. "Come on, Anatole. I think I know where we are." 

Anatole pouts. "Please…?" he says, glancing around in the immediate area. Nothing moves in the still air. "No one's around!" 

He must do something to change Dolokhov's mind. "...Fine," he says in defeat, although the resignation in his voice isn't reflected on his face. "Later, though. When we're in the shelter, alright?" 

Anatole nods. "Alright," he says, flashing his partner a smile. To his surprise, he thinks he sees a hint of a smile on Dolokhov's face, before his expression returns to its normal neutrality. 

"Let's keep going, then, before it's too late." Dolokhov gestures vaguely at the sky, then drops it. Anatole follows his hand, remembers the sky, and swallows fearfully. For a moment, he had almost forgotten about the impending storm. He stands slowly, wobbles a little bit, and they start off again, Anatole wondering if he's forgotten something else.

***

Anatole thinks he sees a flash of hair, maybe, or a patch of clothing, through the trees, every now and then, but every time he looks twice, it's gone. It unnerves him. He doesn't think to tell Dolokhov; perhaps if he doesn't speak of it, it'll go away, whatever it is. So he tries his best to ignore it and focuses on walking without wincing and trying to remember what else he had forgotten. 

For the first time, he actually likes the silence between the two of them. It isn't awkward, and it isn't a bad silence. It isn't even really silence. Anatole just likes it, for some odd reason. It's peaceful. Peace is something that the Games have been lacking, and will continue to lack until the very end, when one or both of them is dead.

He swallows and pushes that thought to the back of his mind. Going back to thinking about the niceness of the silence seems like the best and only plan. Except now, it isn't nice at all; Anatole's thought processes ruined the niceness, and now he has to say something, anything at all to distract himself. 

Luckily, he doesn't have to. Dolokhov breaks the silence with a cough and points over towards a dark spot in the woods. "The canopy looks thicker there," he says, pushing leaves and trees aside and approaching it. "Could be a natural roof." He stands in between the trees and looks straight up. 

"Is it?" Anatole asks as he stumbles over a tree root. 

Dolokhov nods. "Yeah, this should do to wait out the storm," he says. He shrugs. "It's either that, or try to head back to the Cornucopia." 

Anatole shakes his head. "No, thanks, this is  _ just _ fine," he says, sitting down pressed against a tree. "Now will you tell me your name?" 

"You're not going to let that go, are you," Dolokhov mutters. 

Anatole shrugs. "Well…" 

His partner sighs and sits down on a fallen, moss-covered tree. "Fine, I suppose I did promise." He sighs. "Stupid promise, but a promise." 

Anatole grins. "Please?" he asks again, scooting closer. 

Dolokhov sighs. "Yeah, yeah." He waves it off. "It's Fedya."

"Fedya," Anatole repeats, testing Dolokhov -- Fedya's? -- name on his tongue. Something about that is mildly anticlimactic at first, but then he says it again. "Can I call you that?" he asks, tilting his head. 

Dolokhov shrugs. "I don't see why not," he says. "Sure, Anatole."

"Aite, Fedya," Anatole replies, with a smile. And Fedya smiles back, just a little.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw violence

**** They sit without speaking for a while, until Fedya stands up and stretches. "Should get some food," he mumbles. "Since I know that's what you're going to ask next." He motions for Anatole to get up as well. "There should be some small animals in the woods we could trap--"

From behind him, someone hits the ground, hard, falling out of a tree. No -- not falling. They  _ jumped _ .

The person stands up quickly. Anatole freezes, trying to figure out how this person is. He looks them up and down and tries to remember how to breathe. It's his sister's killer.  _ Sonya _ .

"I-It's," he squeaks, shaking. He points behind Fedya, who spins around and kicks the spear up into his hand. Anatole tries to back away. If she killed Hélène, then she could easily kill Anatole right here, right now. He steps backward and falls to the ground, his ankle screaming in pain when he lands. He's stuck.

Fedya throws the spear at the girl, whose face is completely unreadable. It sails right towards her.

She dodges to the right. The spear lands harmlessly to her left. 

It's a mad dash for the weapon now, both of them lunging for it. The girl makes it first. Fedya runs backwards. "You need to move!" he shouts at Anatole, who has been petrified with fear this whole time. "Now, if you wanna live!" 

Anatole barely processes that, lost in shock. He blinks stupidly up at Fedya. All he can hear are footsteps. 

Fedya growls and picks a stick up from the ground. "Go!" he repeats, jabbing Anatole with the stick and spinning on his heel. "God fucking dammit, Anatole!" 

The tip of the stick spurs Anatole to his feet, and he nods slowly. "O-okay," he stammers. Fedya stabs him in the stomach again with the stick, right in the burn. Anatole sucks in a breath and makes it a few steps before the pain from his ankle and his newly aggravated burn force him to drop to the ground. 

Footsteps again, this time closer. One gets closer until it's standing over him. Anatole presumes it's Fedya and tries to stand up again. His breathing and his legs are shaky, He almost makes it when something hits Fedya in the stomach and he stumbles backwards and falls.

Anatole rolls out of the way so he isn't hit. The footsteps turn and run the other away. Fedya coughs loudly. Anatole crawls towards him. "F-Fedya?" he breathes.

His companion just coughs again, and this time, he can see the blood trickling out of his mouth. "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god," Anatole repeats over and over again. He sits back, ignoring his own pain. He doesn't want to look at Fedya's stomach. 

Fedya waves him away. "I c-can't believe this," he spits, more blood dripping down his chin. "What are you  _ doing _ ?" He blinks at Anatole in disbelief. "Seriously."

Anatole shakes his head. "What do you mean?" he says. "I'm n-not doing anything."

" _ Exactly _ ," Fedya says, trying to push him away. "Go. It's pointless."

"W-what is?" he replies. "Fedya please, it's…"

Fedya waves at his stomach. "I'm fucking dying, Anatole," he mutters, coughing again with even more blood then before. "Just leave me alone."

Anatole shakes his head again. "It… It can't be that bad," he begins. He glances over at his teammate's stomach and every ounce of color drains from his face. The spearhead is buried deeply into Fedya's abdomen, blood leaking from the wound and staining his shirt red. His breathing is ragged and irregular, and it looks painful. 

"It's-- It's not  _ t-that _ bad!" Anatole tries to say, but even he can hear how unconvincing he sounds. "No way, you can… You can get through this!" 

"You know how… you sound right now?" Fedya pants. He raises his arm to try and push him again, but that seems to take too much energy and he drops his arm. "Just… Please, go. It'll be a few minutes now--"

"No!" Even Anatole's surprised by the amount of energy he shouts that with. "It's-- It won't be-- You're not gonna…" A lump rises in his throat and he can't speak anymore. He closes his eyes and puts his hand on Fedya's chest. He can't feel a heartbeat.

Fedya's blood-covered hand covers Anatole's, even as he says, "I… can't believe… I died for… you…" 

There's a cannon shot in the distance.

Anatole bites his lip and keeps a strangled sob from coming out. 

And then it starts to rain. 

***

The hovercraft takes Fedya away sometime soon. Anatole isn't aware of it. He knows that it came by only because he looks over and Fedya is no longer there. He can't hear anything. All he can feel is the relentless pounding of the rain against his soaked clothing. 

He's numb. 

He doesn't move for the rest of the day, despite the gnawing hunger in his stomach and the burning thirst in his throat. He just sits there, pathetically, wedged up between tree roots with his arm uncomfortably across his burn. He doesn't register that, doesn't register anything. 

He's alone. He knows he's alone. He can't find anyone else at this point; so little people are left that even if he could find someone else to team with, he doesn't think they would let him live. 

So he just sits there. The sun sets, the night falls, and the anthem plays. He vaguely watches three people go by: first Alexei, then Fedya, and then the girl from Twelve. He settles further into the tree. Part of him rejoices a little -- after all, Alexei's dead, and he's the one who gave Anatole that burn, and there are only a few people left before he can go home and see his family again. Imagine how excited they're all going to be, how happy Ippolit would be, and his father  _ has  _ to be proud of him, he won the Hunger Games, and Hélène would be--

And then he remembers that she's dead too, and he closes his eyes against the rain and tries to push that thought out of his mind, falling asleep with a strange conglomeration of pleasant thoughts and bottled anxiety over being truly, truly alone for the first time in his entire life. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw gore

Anatole is woken up sometime later by a flash of lightning that makes it brighter than daylight, followed by a roll of thunder that swallows any other sound in the air. 

Deliriously, he rolls over, wiping the rain out of his eyes and desperately trying to calm down before it spirals out of control. All around him is dark, pitch black, until another flash of lightning splits the darkness again, and thunder washes over the arena like a rolling blanket, and Anatole seizes up. Panic starts churning through his stomach, and he  _ knows _ that it's unreasonable and childish, he  _ knows _ that it's only a thunderstorm, and he  _ knows  _ that he should calm down, but then another crack of lightning flashes and the panic resurfaces again.

He can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything at all to try and move. He curls up into a ball and focuses on breathing, and not on the thunder, or the wind, or the incessant drumming of the rain and that's all he can focus on and he's too tense. He digs his fingers into his skull and tries to block out the noise of the rain and thunder, but he can feel it pulsing through his brain and he keeps trying to breathe, but it gets caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat and he just squeaks pathetically, trying to keep himself from totally losing it. It's too late, it's too late, and he falls over, shaking and shivering with cold and pure panic. It's just a storm, and he knows it, he knows it--

He seals his eyes shut and tries to steady his shaky breathing. If only he were at  _ home _ , with his  _ sister _ , then perhaps he wouldn't be so distraught, so unable to do anything. He wraps his arms around his sides and tries to maybe, just maybe, stop thinking. But it doesn't work.

There's another flash of lightning and suddenly, he's crying, or maybe it's the rain, or maybe it's both, and he still can't breathe. He's going to pass out if he doesn't stop hyperventilating, he knows, but he can't. His heart pounds in his ears as the thunder booms, every sound melding into one. God, if only someone were there with him, if only there were someone who could help him calm down. 

With that, he's thinking of home again, not for the first time at all, and trying to break the thoughts doesn't help, and he can only remember sitting with his  _ sister _ for as far back as he can remember when thunderstorms rolled over, and she would  _ help _ and she was his only coping mechanism and now she's  _ dead _ and suddenly he's crying harder and this time he vaguely registers that. 

His breathing still has yet to steady, shallow, wheezing breaths that aren't really helping him. Spots dot his vision and he thinks he's going to pass out. Lightning cracks again, illuminating the sky for a brief moment, and his vision is spinning, and  _ oh, God, is that someone who just stumbled into the clearing?  _

The thunder rolls and so does Anatole, trying to see in the pitch blackness through tears and spots and sheets of rain. He thinks he can hear footsteps approaching, and the lightning flashes again, and there  _ is _ someone in the clearing, a silhouette of a girl, and she is frozen, as if surprised to run into him, too. It isn't  _ that  _ girl, she's too tall to be  _ that _ girl, which means that it's probably Irina, and she probably wants to kill him -- and that does nothing to his anxiety except make it worse. He squeaks and tries to slide away, but there's a tree behind him and the footsteps are getting closer. 

Another bolt of lightning splits the sky, and now the girl -- it's definitely not  _ that _ girl, or Irina --  he can see her face -- is even closer and he can  _ see _ the expression on her face and the lightning fades before he can figure out if it's water or blood or both dripping down her chin and Anatole whimpers as the thunder booms and the girl approaches. 

It isn't even ten seconds when another bolt of lightning hits, targeting the girl, and she  _ screams _ , her body frozen and twitching with the shock of the lightning. Her arm is stretched out in front of her just a foot from Anatole, shaking wildly and twitching. Burns spread like wildfire along her skin, blisters forming and popping with the heat. Something pops, something else pops, and blood drips down her face from her eyes and her mouth, pooling together into a mass of red and black that puddles on the ground. Something lights and dies immediately, her  _ hair _ , fire scorching down her skin and clothing. The scream cuts off abruptly into a sickening gurgle and she falls, frozen, right in front of Anatole, empty eye sockets locked directly with his, and Anatole  _ can't _ look away as much as he wants to. 

The lightning fades, the thunder roars, and Anatole can sense her staring at him without staring. It's burned into his eyelids, which is a bad metaphor, a bad one, and he thinks he's going to throw up. Lightning flashes again and he can  _ see  _ her again, and he moans and squeezes his eyes shut in a desperate attempt to not throw up, not throw up, not throw up, and she gurgles something back at him and it's all he can do to keep it  _ down _ .

She is alive, why does she have to be alive, why, why, why, why can't she have died, why, why, why…

She gurgles again, Anatole bites what little he's eaten back, and they seem to be in consensus about death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the short but we're almost done


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw violence/gore

It's a curse when the rain stops in the morning - normally he would think it a blessing, but the living corpse in front of him only looks more grotesque in the dim daylight. The rain peters off as the sun starts to rise, and in the gray light, everything looks darker and more grim. Anatole closes his eyes and curls up into an even smaller ball, his breathing finally steady. Waves of exhaustion pass over him and he knows he should sleep, or at least try, but the remains of the girl from District Seven or Eight, most likely, are breathing funny, too shallow, too inhuman, and he can't help but see the twisted body when he closes his eyes, so sleep is out of the question for now. His stomach feels like a bottomless pit every time he closes his eyes.

He takes a deep breath and keeps his eyes focused on the gray sky, remnants of the clouds wisping away in the dawn breeze. He hasn't slept for over a day, he hasn't had food in an even longer period of time, and at this point, he's contemplating not moving for the rest of the Games, or more accurately, his life. Maybe another storm would come, or another Tribute, and he would just get skewered. 

The thing next to him makes a sickening noise and Anatole decides he would prefer if he didn't die like  _ that _ . 

Silences descends like a piece of paper does, lazily, without a care in the world. Occasionally, the breeze brushes some leaves together or the body makes a noise (which does nothing but unsettle Anatole -- how is she still alive?), but besides that, there is nothing but an eerie quiet surrounding him. No birds chirp with ironic cheerfulness like other mornings, no branches crack with wildlife moving, none of the sounds he's grown used to hearing during the Games. Eventually, even the wind dies away, and everything is quiet.

Anatole yawns, exhaustion stirs in him, and he wonders if sleep wouldn't be such a bad idea. After all, there are only five people left who  _ could _ kill him, and they're probably so locked in battle that he's going to be forgotten. The thought does a very good job of soothing him, and he almost drifts off. 

Almost.

Two sounds send him springing up into action. 

The first is an ominous howl from somewhere in the distance, but not far enough for comfort, followed by another, and another. A pack of animals, wolves, most likely, in the area. Anatole opens his eyes and starts to stand, shaking. Are they on their way? Anatole can't hear.

The second is a cannon shot, and that propels him on the move. Panic shoots through his veins. Wildly, he glances around, trying to figure out where the shot came from. From the woods comes the drumming of feet,  _ lots _ of feet, barreling towards him faster than any one single human being could. Anatole whirls around, searching for a weapon to defend himself, when a boy bursts through the trees, followed by a pack of hungry wolves. 

"Run!" the boy screams, and Anatole doesn't think twice. He whirls around and follows the advice of this stranger, and the two run in time with each other. The sounds of the wolf pack die away behind them, replaced by slobbering, crunching, gurgling noises before distance makes those as well, thankfully, fade. Anatole squeezes his eyes shut as he pounds through the woods. Mercifully, he doesn't stumble until the sounds are gone entirely, and even then, the boy catches him. "Are you okay?" Anatole hears the boy ask him. 

Anatole looks up in confusion. "Why do you-- wha?" he pants, his throat raw from the run in the forest. "Who even are you?" 

"They should be occupied for a while," the mysterious boy says. "I'm… Roman. Not important." He sighs. "Can you do me a huge favor?" 

That doesn't fix Anatole's confusion. "Favor…?" he echoes. What kind of favor would someone want  _ now _ ?

Roman nods. "Yeah. Favor." He pulls something shiny out of his belt and assumes a relaxed pose. "Kill me."

" _ What _ ?" Anatole stares at Roman, blinking slowly. "Kill you?" 

"Please." Roman drops the shiny something on the ground and rakes his fingers down his face. "I-I can't do it myself. I'm too scared. I have to die. Kill me." He sounds desperate, lost, and scared. 

The something rolls over in the dirt and shimmers in the early morning light. It turns out to be a knife. Anatole glances down at it, then back up at the boy. Roman looks about to cry. "Me?" Anatole asks incredulously, pointing at himself. He looks the kid up and down. Kid really is the right word to describe him. He's tiny and frail; granted, Anatole is sure that he himself doesn't look much better right now, but Roman looks like a child. 

Roman nods. "Please, please, please," he repeats over and over like a mantra. "I can't go home. I can't." He motions at the knife. "I hate home." Frustratedly, he wipes his eyes. "I hate my parents and I hate the work and I hate the woods and I just can't do this anymore." He takes a deep breath and steadies himself, puffing his chest out. "Kill me!"

Anatole hesitantly nods, biting his lip. "...If you say so," he says. He picks up the knife and turns it over in his hand. The blade is light and it feels familiar, like the throwing knives in the training room. Sunlight bounces off of it in a strange, morbid light show. Anatole blinks and looks back at Roman, and Roman smiles with the most pathetic pleading look in his eyes Anatole has ever seen. Anatole raises the blade to throw it -- and a spear skewers Roman through the back. 

The boy coughs, blood dribbling down his chin, and he smiles forlornly. "Thank you," he whispers.

He stumbles backward and falls to the ground. The life fades from his eyes, the cannon goes off, and Anatole stares at the tree behind him. Slowly, he raises his gaze up to the branches, and  _ that _ girl, the one who killed his sister, the one who stalked him and Fedya and later killed him, the one that Anatole has been trying to lose, stares back at him, staring nonchalantly at him from the tree branch. Her brown eyes are level with his, her reddish hair is scraggly and falling out around her face. She looks dead inside. 

She drops to the ground and stands there, and Anatole doesn't know what to do. 

He shifts the knife in his hand uncomfortably. He could kill her now, or she could kill him. He isn't sure which one he would prefer. 

She walks forward and grabs the spear from the body of Roman on the ground, and Anatole thinks he is running out of time to make a decision. He backs up and pulls the knife in front of him to try and protect himself. They both stop moving. 

The breeze blows against them, whipping strands of hair into their faces. Anatole doesn't move, doesn't breathe, doesn't know what to do. Neither does the girl, it seems. 

In the distance, the wolves howl, signifying their approach. Anatole feels his breath hitch in his throat and he tightens his grip on the blade's handle. The girl shifts into a fighting stance. Footsteps get louder. 

Anatole can hear his heartbeat pounding past his temples so loudly that if the wolves can't hear it, the girl certainly has to be able to. The two of them move in unison, Anatole stepping back as the girl steps closer. He stops again. 

A bundle of torn and matted black fur erupts through the trees, foam and blood dripping down its chin. Anatole jumps. The creature swings its head from Anatole to the girl in a second.

It lunges at Anatole, and he panics. The knife flies from his hand and through the air, sailing harmlessly past the creature. Instead, it hits the girl in the stomach with a sickening thud. She falls backward. Blood pools around the wound, a burgundy stain blossoming across her shirt. The wolf stops in mid-air and whips around. It sniffs the air once, twice, before charging towards the girl. The girl tries to move away, tries to run, but she's on the ground. Anatole stands frozen, watching the wolf sniff at the girl, and for just a second, their eyes meet. There's a look of sheer, unadulterated terror in the girl's eyes. 

Then the wolf gets in the away and something crunches. The girl makes a gurgling noise, trying to struggle, and then she falls limp. 

Anatole bolts, leaving the girl alone to be eaten alive. 

***

The cannon goes off shortly after, and Anatole stops running, breathing hard. The adrenaline is wearing off. All the pain comes waving on to him at once. His burn radiates pain with each breath, and his legs ache from overuse. In an attempt to calm down, he leans against a tree and shuts his eyes, trying to will his breathing to steady. 

The sun has barely risen, and already three people have died today. Anatole tries to swallow the anxiety building up in his stomach. It feels more and more likely that he may be one of them in the coming hours. He looks up at the sky and the clouds going by, thin, stringy reminders of previous day's storms. Cheerful orange fades into light blue just above; it's been longer than he'd thought it had been. He sighs and presses his back against the tree. 

In the distance, a branch snaps, and Anatole pushes himself forward again. Wildly, he looks around, trying to catch even a glimpse of what might be coming. 

When nothing appears, he sighs and decides to walk somewhere, anywhere really. Away from the wolves and the dead girl. He takes a deep breath and grits his teeth against the pain from his burn. If it ever heals before he dies, he makes a promise to be grateful for the ability to walk without pain. 

Another branch cracks, some leaves rustle. Anatole shivers and keeps walking. It can't be the wolves. They make too much noise. He steels himself and glances around. 

An arrow whizzes past his face and sinks into the tree right next to him. "Dammit!" someone hisses, and Anatole breaks into a dead sprint. It only aggravates the aching in his burn and his legs, but he runs anyway. Something inside him is keeping him going, propelling him onward. Maybe it's the fact that an arrow in the head doesn't sound appealing. Or maybe it's the rabid wolves that he's certain would get to his corpse before the Capitol did.

Something clatters to the ground, a bow with a snapped string, and his attacker is hot on his heels. Anatole gulps. He doesn't have a weapon anymore to defend himself. If he doesn't run, he's going to die. 

The trees are getting thinner and thinner as he flees. Branches whip across his face and limbs, thorns tangle around his ankles. It's a miracle he doesn't trip and fall; that would mean instant death for him. He keeps running, but he can never shake his pursuer.

Pulling his ankle free from a snag on a tree root, he stumbles out onto the Cornucopia for the first time since the beginning of the games. Sunlight makes the golden shell glitter appealing, blinding him. He stops and stumbles, and then his attacker tackles him. 

With a gasp, he slams into the ground. His attacker is straddling him, beating his face into the ground. Anatole struggles and flails around to get a grip on them, but it turns out to be futile. Eventually, he's rolled over onto his back and the assailant starts trying to beat him to death. Blow after blow pummels his face, until his nose and mouth are bleeding. He tries to fight back, but to no avail. 

It feels like he is going to die. 

He has just resigned himself to this fate when the sound of running feet closes in, someone shouts something incoherent, and his would-be killer is torn off him by a strange blur. 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw violence/gore

Anatole takes the opportunity to get up, wiping away the blood streaming down his face. Waves of dizziness wash over him. He blinks and steadies himself. 

Then he sees the rabid wolves circling his attacker's prone body. He can see now it's Irina. A pair are circling her, around and around, and a few more are snarling at him. Anatole presses his hand to his broken nose to try and staunch the bleeding. In seconds, his hand is coated in red, but he ignores it. The wolves are approaching. He backs up slowly, then turns around, spinning in a circle. On one side is the other person, someone familiar, from the beginning of the Games --  _ Pierre _ \-- hitting one of the wolves on the head with a rock. On the other is Irina, rising from the ground. The wolves have gotten to her, latching onto her leg and arm, and she's swiping at them with furious strokes. From everywhere, more and more animals are entering the center, emerging from trees and behind bushes. Anatole swallows. Now  _ this _ is how to end the Games. 

One of the creatures leaps in front of him, snarling and snapping, and Anatole sprints towards Pierre, screaming something to try and catch the other Tribute's attention. It works; Pierre looks up from the twitching wolf and Anatole can see the blood lines down one half of his face and wonders how he survived. Unfortunately, the noise catches more than his attention. Countless animals erupt into a chorus of howls and start running. 

The three people stop moving as the wolves surround them. Even the ones nearest fall back into the circle around them. Anatole glances between Irina and Pierre, terrified. This Capitol-engineered pattern is caging them in. 

For a second, no one moves from position, and then, of all people, Pierre breaks off towards the trees. The wolves stop moving and recalculate; this isn't expected. Anatole takes advantage of this and follows him, sprinting fast than he's ever run before. 

Pierre is climbing the tree when Anatole catches up to him. He's already  a decent way up, leaving bloody handprints on the wood. "H-Hey!" Anatole calls. "W-Wait up!" He lets go of his nose and starts to follow. 

The wolves start to move again, lightning fast. Anatole has barely made any progress when one snaps at his heels. Pierre shoots a look down, and Anatole responds with his own pleading one. The wolf growls and jumps again; Anatole can feel the creature's hot breath. He pulls himself  almost onto the same branch.

The wolf jumps again. And this one sinks in. 

Unbelievably sharp teeth dig into Anatole's leg. Pain shoots up and down as the muscle rips from the bone. He can hear the scraping of teeth. A painful scream escapes him, and he almost loses his grip. Luckily, Pierre grabs him and gives him the boost he needs to push upward. The wolf loses its grip and falls to the ground just as Anatole is pulled onto the same branch as Pierre, leaving him with a mangled, bleeding lump of destroyed flesh where his left leg once was. He bites his lip from crying out. It barely. 

Pierre looks at him. "No one deserves to die like that," he says, pointing at the circling wolves. Anatole nods and closes his eyes. It's too much. It's all too much. 

"Th-thanks," he wheezes. The bloodthirsty animals below jump again, snapping their jaws and clawing at the tree trunk. Black spots swirl against Anatole's vision. Every movement of the tree sends pain shooting up the entire left side of his body. He's going to black out, bleed out, or both. Neither of those sound good to him. He clings onto the wood and tries to sway with the branch. 

His consciousness fades for just a moment. He snaps back to attention with his shoulder being jerked up. "H-Huh?" Anatole says, dizzy. The tree is shaking again. The creatures are bouncing the tree. Anatole fumbles and tries to grabs onto Pierre again.

"Hold on, you're gonna pass out," Pierre says. He pulls Anatole up onto the branch. Anatole slides against the trunk. Has he stopped bleeding? His nose has. 

"Why are you helping me…?" he asks, his voice breathy. Sleep seems nice. 

A wolf jumps and snaps its jaws shut on the branch below. Anatole rethinks falling asleep. His leg pulses with pain every heartbeat.

"I told you--" Pierre kicks out at the wolf below and it drops, snarling and spitting-- "no one deserves to die like--"

A rusty spear sinks into the trunk just below the limb the two Tributes are on. Everything falls silent. As one, everyone's attention shifts to the thrower of the spear.

Irina stands on top of the Cornucopia, holding a plethora of old, abandoned weapons that had never been gotten in the beginning of the games. From this distance, she's barely visible. Half of her face is torn apart (that could be the block spots across Anatole's vision). Blood gushes from a wound on her arm. She looks desperate. Angry, even. And clinging to life.

She throws something else, an axe, and it falls hopelessly to the ground just in front of the wolves. Anatole is surprised at the amount of strength she's retained throughout the Games. 

He can't dwell on that for long, though. She starts to throw something else, and every last one of the weapons in her arm clatter down the golden Cornucopia and into a pile on the ground. The noise draws the wolves' attention. 

_ Don't do it _ , Anatole thinks.  _ God, please, don't do it _ .

She looks down at the ground. 

_ Don't! _

She jumps.

All at once, the wolves are upon her, circling her from all sides. She screams, her voice hoarse, before that dies away. Blood and other things Anatole doesn't want to think about go flying. From this distance, he is spared the gorey details. 

He closes his eyes and stares at Pierre, who is staring right back at him. "L-like that," he stammers, pushing his broken glasses up his face. "No one -- not even her…"

Anatole nods and swallows the bile creeping up his throat. "Y-yeah," he chokes out. 

The cannon goes off. 

The wolves turn around, licking the fur around their mouths. Fueled by bloodlust, they  _ all _ rush for the trees. Anatole groans and grabs on the trunk for dear life as one by one by one they start kicking at the tree. 

_ Up and down and up and down and up and down and up and down and -- _

Anatole digs his fingers into the bark. His eyes close of their own accord. 

_ \-- down and up and down and up and down and up and down and up and -- _

He isn't sure where his strength has come from and he doesn't know why he hasn't died already and he is biting his lip so hard more blood is drawn, but he ignores it.

_ \-- oh my god and up and down and stop and stop and stop and stop and stop -- _

He isn't able to hold on much longer--

A weight slips from the trees, and Anatole opens his eyes to see Pierre plummeting to the ground, his hands outstretched futilely. Anatole straddles the tree branch and stretches his hand out to try and grab him, try and save him, and for a moment, he  _ does  _ reach Pierre. He grabs Pierre's arm and tries to pull, trying to lift him back up the tree. "N-no one--" his hand starts to slip against Pierre's bloody arm-- "N-no o-one--" Pierre is dangling and trying to help Anatole lift him but it's not working, not working--

Anatole pulls Pierre up as hard as he can. "N-no one else deserves to die," he breathes, and Pierre almost reaches the branch-- 

He slips out of Anatole's fingers and crashes to the ground, and to wolves surround him. 

"No…" Anatole breathes. His gaze falls to the ground. In the mass of fur, Pierre is lying there, staring up at him. For just a moment, Anatole's eyes meet Pierre's. "I-I'm so sorry," he tries to say, but all that comes out is an unintelligible squeak. 

Pierre has no expression on his face. He closes his eyes, and  _ starts  _ to say something, but then time speeds up again and a wolf bites down and Pierre  _ screams _ .

Tears start to well up behind Anatole's eyes, helpless, frustrated, apologetic tears. He feels so  _ useless _ to help anyone.  He forces them back and curls up against the tree and tries not to look, but he can  _ hear _ it all -- the groaning and the chewing and the  _ squishing  _ and the  _ splashing _ and the  _ tearing _ \-- and he wonders what's so entertaining about watching someone get torn apart, limb from limb, organ by organ, so that five people today have died that way.

He closes his eyes and tries to block the noise out, but it's impossible, so instead, he buries his face in his hands and tries not to give off any emotion.

The cannon goes off.  _ I'm so, so sorry.  _

The wolves leave.  _ Please forgive me.  _

The trumpets blast.  _ No one deserved this. _

The announcement plays.  _ It should have been me. _

" _ Ladies and gentlemen, Anatole Kuragin, winner of the Thirty-Sixth Annual Hunger Games! _ "

Anatole sobs into his hands. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> congrats man you made it this far


	18. Chapter 18

Anatole sits on a bench with Hélène. They're talking, a normal conversation, on a normal sunny day in District One. Anatole isn't even paying attention to what she's saying right now; he's just happy that the Games were a dream. 

She laughs and leans back against the bench. "Something wrong, dear brother?" she asks. "You look surprised by something."

"Huh?" Anatole snaps out of his thoughts. "Oh. Uh, no." He flashes her a grin. "Just… Thinking about a dream."

"A dream," Hélène repeats. She wipes away a drop of sweat. "God, it's hot. Wouldn't it be great if we were working today, hm?" 

Anatole nods. "Yeah, yeah." He looks up at the sky, which is painted with gray clouds every now and then. "Maybe it'll rain…" 

He must stare for awhile, because Hélène's hand is on his shoulder. "Anatole," she says. 

"Rain would be nice," Anatole says. He doesn't look away. 

Hélène touches his shoulder again. Her hand is oddly wet. "Wouldn't it," she echoes, her voice fading as she speaks. She pulls her hand away. Water drips onto the bench from somewhere. Anatole swallows and slowly, very, very slowly, turns away from the sky and towards his sister. 

The water dripping gets louder and more frequent. Hélène smiles. "Wasn't it nice before?" she says, and then there's a crack of lightning and the rain starts pouring all at once, and suddenly she isn't there anymore and there's just a puddle leaking through the slats in the benches. 

Anatole freezes, unable to move or think or say anything or scream, and he grabs at the puddle but the water -- water? -- slips through his fingertips and onto the ground. 

Thunder roars, enveloping Anatole in a blanket of noise that he can't take for very long. He claps his hands over his ears like a little child and screams--

\--and comes to in his bed, thrashing and kicking in a sheet that suddenly is constricting his every breath. Outside, rain falls on the roof and windows like a steady drumbeat. It matches with the beating of his speeding heart and it's too much for him, too much, but the blankets are trapping him and why isn't his left leg working?

Somehow, just when the reaction is boiling over, he throws the single thin sheet off of his shaking, sweating body and across the room. The rain seems to be getting louder. He shudders and tries to get out of bed. Hélène. He has to talk to Hélène, get the confirmation that it was just a nightmare, that's all it was, ever, and nothing more, and he takes one step forward with his left leg and touches nothing but air. 

His chin hits the wooden floor with a  _ thud _ and pain shoots up his entire face. It's starting to come back to him, slowly, slowly, but his panic-addled brain refuses to accept it. Futilely, he tries to stand, only to collapse in a crying heap a few moments later. 

Gone, gone, gone. His left leg is gone. His sanity is gone. 

His  _ sister _ is gone. 

Tears blur his vision as the last shreds of the fantasy conjured by the dream fade from his mind. Somehow, he manages to find his way against the wall, his back pressed against the cool wall.

The rain beats into his skull, each drop louder and louder against the echo chambers of his brain, and instinctively he curls around himself, his hands over his ears, but that only makes it louder and he whimpers pathetically to nothing, "S-stop it, stop it," but to whom and about what, he doesn't know. 

The rain doesn't let up and the memories don't either.

He stays like that until morning, quaking and crying, without daring to close his eyes again. 

No one comes to help him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're done  
> it's over  
> i'm so sorry


End file.
